


Figurehead

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Royalty, Prince Captain Hook | Killian Jones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6422119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian’s a royal (ass) and he and Emma have a one night stand that ends up in the headlines. She’d totally kill him if she could, but having Regina take the throne is not a preferable choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this 100% was meant to be for my big bang, but as I've realized that this is going to go far beyond 50K, I've decided to post it as a multichapter. Inspired by this au prompt: _I drunkenly tried to fight you and knocked myself out but you are kind enough to take care of me till I woke up._ Special thanks to @bluestoplights and @blondecrowns for being wonderful as per usual and encouraging me as always.

The easiest part of avoiding the drunken moron trying to fight her is to step out of his way and let gravity do the rest.

The hardest part is avoiding a third strike on her record. She’s only worked at the expensive Gold Club for a month, and Emma can’t afford to lose this job. Rent is due, Netflix doesn’t pay for itself, and she likes being able to eat. The wink and grin, “Would you believe I knocked him out with my charm?” won’t work, even if Belle herself assures Gold that Emma isn’t abrasive enough to deliberately concuss a patron. Gold is too clever for that, and Emma is not that charming.

Especially now when she’s _finally_ ended her double shift only to have an _absolute_ dumbass decide that it’s a good idea to start a fight. With Emma. The bouncer. Who is so close to freedom that she can see it racing away to the DJ’s beat.

Emma makes it work in the only way she knows how. She improvises the hell out of the situation. With her tight red dress, required by Gold to help the bouncers blend and preserve the club’s “atmosphere”, and a smile perfected to disarm, it’s easy to convince the guy who rushes to the passed out drunk’s aid to help her.

“My boyfriend is so drunk that he’s fighting shadows, and look, he’s hit his head! Can you please help me get him to a cab?”

It’s a piece of cake up until the moment she searches through his pockets and realizes he has no wallet or any identifiable piece of information on him.

 _Bullshit_ , she thinks all the way to her apartment as she hauls his too slowly awakening form up the stairs in her pumps. She considers stabbing him to death with them, but that would defeat the purpose, so she just kicks them off at the door instead.

Unfortunately for Emma, the bullshit just keeps coming while she grapples with him in an attempt to clean the light wound from his fight with the floor.

“Stop fighting me!”

“I can take care of myself – I don’t need you,” he hisses in a slur.

 _Really_?

“ _Yeah_? I don’t need this either, but you’re drunk, and with no ID I’m stuck dealing with your idiocy until I can send you back to wherever you came from.”

“I’m not drunk,” the man hisses again, rubbing at his scruffy jaw. “I’m injured.”

He doesn’t fight her when she comes at him with the rubbing alcohol this time, and even though he twitches at the pain, she counts it as progress.

“You’re that, too,” Emma says. Very little blood comes away with the cotton pad, so she breathes a sigh of relief and tilts his chin up to look at her.

His eyes are wide open and he focuses his blue gaze on her.

“You’re hot.”

She drops his chin and dabs at the cut with the cotton pad again for good measure. He swats her hands away and says drily, “That _was_ a compliment.”

“Compliment me by getting the hell out of my apartment.”

He clutches his chest with a grin, his fingers stiff - it’s a prosthetic, she realizes as he says, “But, alas, my head feels like it’s been split open and I cannot safely leave on my own.” Reaching behind him, he searches the back pockets of his dark Levis and finds the same thing Emma had: nothing. “With no money, either.”

“Pity that,” Emma replies with all the teeth of a smile and none of the humor.

He takes that as a challenge because of course he does. Wouldn’t be a difficult evening if the guy actually agreed to leave when she asked him.

“Don’t you want to know _why_ I’ve ended up here?” he presses.

Emma considers this for a moment.

“No.”

“Oh, come on, you _must_ be curious. Think of this as a way to pass the time.”

The wiggle of his eyebrows, his wink and his grin is a ridiculous combination of flirtatious and disastrous. Emma laughs and taps his chin with her hand.

“Yeah, buddy, we can pass the time with you calling whoever you need to come get you.”

The man falls back against the couch, hand sweeping over his head like a fainting maiden. Emma’s amusement racks up a notch and despite the over-dramatics, her annoyance starts to fade. He’s taking advantage of her unwilling hospitality but at least she’s home and in no danger of him doing anything - she’ll crack his skull again if he tries it.

“I only have myself to rely on in these dark times,” he says.

Emma quirks an eyebrow; he’s not lying but there’s something off about his response. “Dark times?” she probes.

“Yeah, I think my vision’s fading out. Is that supposed to happen?”

Emma sighs and moves back into his reach. Pulling his arm away, she takes his head in both hands. His bearded cheeks tickle her palms, and she’d be a liar if she didn’t acknowledge the fleeting thought about what it’d feel like on her.

“Look at me,” she says.

He opens his eyes. The focus hasn’t left but he does seem a bit out of it. He stares at her with glazed blue eyes.

“I was wrong,” he manages faintly.

“What were you wrong about?” she asks, his face still in her hands.

“You’re not hot. You’re beautiful, stunning, dazzling -”

Emma drops his head in a move that no one could mistake for gentle, cutting his compliments short. This can’t go on any longer. She moves to go get ice for his head, but he stretches out a hand between them and says, “My name’s Killian. Yours?”

She drops back down. Probably a bad call to introduce herself.

“No last name, huh?” she asks.

Killian shakes his head with an apologetic smile. “You can’t trust anyone these days, can you?”

It catches her off guard, the way he looks at her as he says it, acknowledging her deflection with understanding, and it’s a bit too much of a turn from the wounded flirt of only a minute ago; she’s not looking to get deep with him, she’s just looking to get him out of her apartment.

So, she deflects again, says, “No, you can’t. Not when they can press charges against you for attempted assault.”

He takes the hint like the floor to his skull: not very well. “Hey! I did not try to assault you, I would never – speaking of, let me tell you what _really_ happened, love.”

Emma knows she is veering dangerously into entertaining him territory, but she can’t stop herself from whining, “Why?”

“To keep me awake until this pain wears off and I can be on my way. Besides, we can make the telling interesting. A game, perhaps? You seem like the type to like a challenge.”

Killian isn’t wrong.

Grudgingly she asks, “And what kind of game would this be?”

“A guessing game.”

Emma smiles because of course it is. His creativity is simply astounding.

“ _Simple_ enough. If I guess right, do you leave?”

“I will vacate your premises and allow you to settle down for the evening,” he swears, holding his hand over his heart as if he’s swearing fealty to her.

It’s amusing enough to draw another smile, and when, after a quiet moment, Killian says, “I still don’t know your name. It’ll be good to have it when I send you the ‘thank you’ gift basket,” Emma gives, just a bit.

“Emma Swan,” she says.

“That’s a lovely last name. Compared to mine…”

He sighs sadly.

“Which is?” Emma lifts both eyebrows, not even trying for subtle.

“It wouldn’t be a proper guessing game if I just told you,” he says.

“I’m guessing why you ended up on the floor, not your last name,” Emma says. “I don’t have the energy for more than that.”

His brows draw together as he studies her. “Tired?” he asks.

“Exhausted,” she corrects.

“And I’m keeping you up. I do apologize, Emma. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

He swipes his hand over his face again, his frustration with himself as sincere as his apology. He looks tired, too, when he’s sagging like that against her couch cushion, the kind of weary that speaks of more than a possible concussion. The question settles at the tip of her tongue - and Emma nearly stumbles getting up, but she waves off his concern, and takes determined steps to the fridge.

The night could be worse, and while she may be digging ice out her broken freezer for a man with no last name when all she really wants to do is curl up in her bed, at least he’s apologetic about the situation. She’ll count that as a win. She hasn’t had enough of those lately to just be tossing them aside.

Returning to the living room with a Ziploc bag full of ice, she takes her seat again as she hands off the bundle.

“Thank you, love,” Killian says. He leans the ice against his head, hissing at the cold, but once that initial shock eases, he smiles at her. “So, we were playing a game, weren’t we?”

“So, you weren’t trying to fight me,” Emma says, not exactly to him, just testing the truth of his words now that he’s more conscious.

He nods.

“So, you were trying to fight someone else?” she suggests.

He shakes his head. “Try again.”

“But you had fists flying,” she protests.

His smile is teasing as he says, “Is that what you saw?”

“I’m not the one who hit my head,” she says.

It’s his turn to protest, “I wouldn’t be either if you hadn’t moved!”

The offense in his tone is a shade beyond necessary, just over the line of dramatic and into the histrionic. He’s not the only wounded party here.

“No, you’d just have knocked me to the ground and I’d have had to actually grievously injure you,” she snaps.

The conversation turns with a narrowing of his eyes and a curving of his lips - ‘Gotcha!’ the look screams, but she’s the one guessing here not him.

Oh gods, she’s getting into this stupid game.  
  
“So you do work there? Bouncer, then?” he says.

He must’ve known all along, but she doesn’t remember seeing him at all. Emma stifles a curse, deadpans with blank stare, “What gave it away? My charming personality? Winning smile?”

He chuckles. “Very few of Gold’s patrons wear their dress slits high enough to kick a man in the groin.”

Intent on not letting him get the better of her - he’s right, she wears her dress slit high enough to maim, but that’s not her only weapon, and she can see through his distraction. Tired as she is, she’ll rise to his damn challenge, stupid as _it_ is.

“How long have you known Gold, then?” Emma retorts.

It’s his turn to stifle a curse, but he does it better than her, his voice less attacking, more curious when he says, “What makes you think that I know Gold?”

“You could _try_ to lie to me, but that would just be stupid. I can always tell,” she says.

“And you’re proud of that,” he says softly, wonderingly, his look measuring.

She feels identified. Recognized. Acknowledged.

She feels _seen_.

Emma shrugs under his gaze, at how he seems to tuck the information away, something to remember. She shrugs, but he’s the first one to look away, with a nod of his head and a blink of his eyes.

His tone shifts abruptly, and Emma no longer feels like curling her fingers into her palms when he says, “The better part of my life. He’s helped my _family_ through some rough times.”

He’s omitting a lot, but it’s not like she needs to know his past when she can hear the grit in his teeth, sees more than enough in his frozen smile and the slight furrow in his brow. Emma doesn’t know a thing about family (surprise, surprise, an orphan doesn’t know family) but that bitterness? Some days it takes all her strength not to let it get the better of her, and some days, she just lets it.

Gods, she’s tired.

“So, not a fight. But you were going for someone. But not me,” Emma poses. “The question is why?”

He doesn’t say anything, and with his eyes closing again, Emma leans forward, not sure if he’s heard her, not sure if he’s starting to doze off. As she’s reaching out to touch him, he opens his eyes, and his mouth twitches into a smile.

“You just can’t resist me,” he murmurs.

“You knew him,” Emma says, sharply drawing back.

He huffs, not subtle in the least about his disappointment, but lets it pass and says, “Aye.” Shrugs his shoulders like it was obvious to begin with.

Should it have been obvious to her? She finds herself considering this, whips back through her memory of the scene. She was moving too fast to notice him amongst all the other well-dressed men, not until he went for her - _didn’t_ go for her, they’ve established that, right, but he looked remarkably like he was going for her and - if she keeps considering this, she’s going to find a way to make it her fault, but shit, she assessed the situation the best she could. Reacting to his lunge is not her fault.

He should’ve calculated his balance better.

“How did you know him?”

“How do you?” Killian shoots back.

 _Seriously_?

She restrains herself with difficulty, the smile tickling her cheeks. “Don’t pull that ‘I know you are but what am I?’ crap with me.”

“What -?”

His brow wrinkles. Stupid insults are universal, right? Or maybe not. His accent, she doesn’t recognize it, vaguely European, but honestly, she’s no good at accents. Hollywood does them so badly that she can only truly identify five - Jersey, Southern, Boston, Brooklyn, and California Girl, and those are probably horribly mangled too. Maybe ‘I know you are but what am I?’ is only in the States.

Tossing his lack of knowledge on playground taunts aside, she says, “Fine, I’ll keep playing. You know him and supposedly I know him. So, he’s a regular of Gold’s.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Emma demands.

Killian pays no heed to her tone - maybe she is a little more heated than she should be for a guessing game with him - and he says, “That’s not a guess.”

“You’re not a guess,” Emma grumbles. She rolls her neck tiredly.

“I thought we weren’t pulling that, ‘I know you are but what am I’ crap,” Killian quotes. Emma glares him - maybe she should be _more_ heated. He must sense this for he sighs, “You’re never going to guess, love, which is a wonder, actually.”

Alright, fine, it isn’t like she wanted to win. She yawns, “Whatever. I don’t like games anyway.”

“Now that is a lie,” Killian says.

“What makes you so certain?”

He lifts his gaze from her knees and looks past her shoulder. “The PlayStation hooked up to your TV?” He stretches his neck a bit more and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline in excitement. “Is that Skyrim, I see?”

“Stop scouting out my apartment. I don’t have anything worth stealing for someone who can afford Gold’s club. Buy your own game system,” Emma says.

He scans her apartment again and nods, “I can see a dozen things worth stealing in here. Take that clock hanging on the wall, for example.”

Emma does not glance back at the creepy cat because it’s seriously creepy and it’s bad enough that the landlord insisted she not rip it from the wall when she moved in. The things one does for a cheap apartment.

“That was there when I bought it.”

Killian appraises the clock - and she can feel its creepy eyes appraising her, shit.

“I could fence it for about $750. Clean it up a bit, fix that pendulum tail so its swing isn’t so off, I could get even more.”

He meets the disbelief in her eyes with a serious nod. His eyes no longer look glazed. Clear headed. This is a _clear_ -headed thought.

Emma whistles low. “You must know _some_ people.”

She looks at him expectantly, which is probably her mistake because he just downplays it, “I do know some people. I know many people in fact.”

He’s _good_ at this. It’s not as annoying as it should be. He shouldn’t have started this game thing, because fuck it, Emma wants to win.

She presses her face into her hands and groans, “Don’t tell me you're a part of some kind of Thieves’ Guild.”

“So, that _is_ Skyrim, I see.”

When she pulls her hands away, he’s dropped the ice pack to the couch beside him, has his fingers pressed gently to the knot in his head, some kind of Professor-X imitation.

That _is_ Skyrim he sees. And if looks closer, he’ll find her Star Wars and X-Men collection.

“Second hand copies of Skyrim won’t net you much,” Emma reminds him.

He swings his head to the other side, a motion that makes him flinch in pain. “That painting will if I claim it’s a forgery by a particular forger,” Killian says. He works a hand over his jaw, and murmurs, “Maybe Alonzo? Jensen & Son? Or someone else...Elder?”

Emma cuts his musing short, says, “That’s a thing? People pay for forgeries deliberately? The world is _amazing_.”

“People are stupid,” Killian translates her sarcasm.

“People are beyond stupid,” Emma corrects.

He chuckles, acceding to her wisdom with a nod of his head, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to encounter so many in your time working for Gold.”

“Fewer than you think. They make the particularly stupid ones use the other door. For some reason, Gold doesn’t think I’m enough of a people person to deal with them. Something about me not appreciating people who stare too long at the slit in my dress high enough to kick a man in the groin - and knee them in the chin when they fall to the ground, clutching at the goods.”

If he gets the hint in her words, that she didn’t see him come through the door, and look, she ended up sort of (not really, it was his own fault really) causing him the same kind of injury then…

Well, he doesn’t show it.

“I don’t think it’s the lack of appreciation he has a problem with. Maybe it’s the part where you’ve imagined in loving detail just how you’ll incapacitate them for the rest of their life?”

“Maybe.”

She looks at Killian, and all it takes is a long onceover to get him frowning and lifting his hands. His left hand is a good prosthetic because the fingers splay as well as his right. Yeah, he doesn’t need a single thing from her apartment, but his knowledge of fencing net profits is interesting. Perhaps, worrisome. Perhaps, criminal. Maybe all three.

Emma shifts forward and he presses himself against the back of the couch, and says, “Hey now, lass. You’ve already incapacitated me. No need to look at me like you’re considering far worse.”

She yawns in response. He relaxes, his smile soft.

“That table must be uncomfortable. Join me on the couch?”

This time when she gives him the ‘possible incapacitation: incoming’ look, it isn’t deliberate. But his observation isn’t wrong, nor is his suggestion unwelcome on her stiff back. Carrying him up the stairs wasn’t kind on her.

She gets up from the table and slumps on the couch next to him. As exhausted as she is, even the slight comfort of her lumpy couch would normally take her out, but with him so close, she feels more awake. The closer to danger she is, the more awake she becomes. Adrenaline? Not just a myth.

“Good, good. Now prop your feet up, relax a bit,” he encourages. He smiles at her when she rolls her eyes. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a spell…”

“Killian, don’t do it,” she warns.

She may not be annoyed anymore, but that doesn’t mean she wants him staying the night. Or, in the horrible teeny tiny likelihood that he slips into a coma, she doesn’t want to have to explain any of this to the paramedics.

Or have to hide the body.

Her back is wincing at the thought.

“But -”

She snuggles down deeper into the couch but lifts one eyebrow in response. Killian pouts. He must think it adorable because he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, too, drawing a laugh from somewhere deep in the pit of Emma’s stomach.

Gods, she’s tired.

“I’m glad my despair can cause you such delight,” Killian says.

“I have to find humor somewhere,” Emma says. “Look at this situation from my point of view.”

“I’m trying to. Let’s see, dashingly handsome man at his weakest in your apartment, flirting wildly, and making it clear that he’d love for you to have your way with him and you just...insist on glaring at him. Your point of view is a bit hard to get into, love.”

She wags her finger at him. “Not when you're acknowledging the context. Dashingly handsome man in my apartment, flirting wildly, drunkenly, concussedly -”

“I do believe that’s not a word,” he latches on to that last part.

Funny, she’d thought he’d latch onto her agreement with the ‘dashingly handsome’ part. Funny how his dimples flash for a second, like he knows she expected something different.

“You’re in no position to dispute it,” she says.

“I didn’t forget the workings of the English language just because I hit my head on the floor,” he drawls.

“You get my point. Context - context is important.”

“You must be a pleasure to watch movies with,” Killian says.

His eyes twinkle, crinkling like he’s imagining it.

Emma’s on the verge of suggesting they pop on Netflix and see when she realizes just how indulging that sounds. She crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Wouldn’t know,” instead. It’s a bit too much on the nose, but it’s a better shut down than inviting him to stay even longer.

“Well if you have any plans to find out...”

“Count you in?” she finishes.

His lower lip dips, his eyebrows rising suggestively, “Please.”

“ _Please_ ,” Emma parrots with a derisive roll of her eyes. And because she can’t shut her stupid mouth, she adds, “I like to _watch_ my movies without interruption.”

He more than exceeds her expectations this time, shifting noticeably, “What kind of interruption do you think I’d have in mind, Emma?”

She searches for some way to twist the conversation back to safer waters - finds herself thinking that there’s nothing safe about Killian No-Last-Name and stuttering a response, “I don’t know - something -”

“I like to watch my movies without interruption, too, Emma,” he says gently. His smile grows again. “And I also have a fondness for Star Wars.”

“Stop scouting out my place,” Emma emphasizes.

Still, she smiles - which turns into a yelp when she pulls her legs up onto the couch and her bare ankle brushes the melting ice pack. He picks it up, wincing apologetically and says, “I think the swelling’s gone down.”

“Dizziness, too?”

“Let’s see,” he says.

He stands and she follows, touching her hand to his arm as he takes a few careful steps. If she has to catch him again...but no, he walks easily, even though his hand does reach up to touch his head again.

“The headache isn’t going to fade for a while, I suspect. Can you believe this is my first head injury?” Killian asks.

“You’re doing well for a first timer,” Emma comments sardonically.

He steps around her apartment, walking towards the creepy cat clock.

“You weren’t lying about the value,” Emma says.

“I wasn’t,” he confirms.

“People are _so_ stupid,” she moans.

She taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to face her, tilting his head down towards hers. Emma means to take the ice pack out of his hands, but Killian lifts his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I don’t think I’m truly capable of leaving just yet. I’m sorry, Emma.”

Emma shrugs. “I didn’t win your game.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, his mouth parting slightly, and Emma uses that moment to go for the ice pack, staring at the blue thing with an intensity that she usually saves for hot pockets and her alarm clock.

“You said if I won your game, you’d leave...and I didn’t win,” she says, like explaining her thought process will make it any better.

“I’m growing on you,” Killian says.

“Like a tumor. Look, let’s just say I’ll feel bad if you leave here and end up sprawled out dead on my street. And it’ll make me look _really_ bad.”

A curious look passes over him - shameful, scared, even - and then he just smiles, tighter than before, but there’s only humor in his voiced, “I doubt anything could make you look bad.”

“Yeah, tell that to 5am me,” Emma says.

“I am,” he says, glancing at the creepy cat clock.

Fuck.

“I don’t know a thing about concussions, but um,” _Fuck_. “Best give it another half hour or so before you go to sleep.”

That’ll mean another half hour or so of her staying awake but she can’t just leave him in her apartment. Her landlord will never forgive her if she lets Killian No-Last-Name run off with the cat.

She walks around him though, leaving him standing there while she takes the makeshift ice pack and tosses it in the sink, dries her chilled hands on the dish towel and stares at her box of pop tarts forlornly. She’s a shit eater, but her stomach wilts at the thought of eating one at 5am after a double shift. She’ll need real food.

Eventually.

Emma makes her way back to Killian’s side where he’s leaning against the wall next to the clock, waiting for her. He stands straighter when he sees her and says, ““So...since I’m not allowed to sleep…I know another way to keep me awake.”

She laughs aloud, choking on it. He’s still trying, and honestly...

“That usually just puts guys to sleep,” she counters.

“Emma, you underestimate me.”

He seems genuinely wounded, which technically he is but not so much anymore - not so much when he’s staring at her so intently, his gaze on her lips as he steps just that inch closer. The way he licks his bottom lip _isn’t_ unattractive, and she isn’t exactly unaffected by it. She has to be completely exhausted, or just concussed to be considering taking him up on his offer. Or worse, taken in by his charm. Knowing herself, it’s the worst of the three.

“That’ll put _me_ to sleep,” she says.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

Yeah, Emma’s charmed.

Emma kisses him first, grabbing him around the collar and tugging him against her. She’s dead tired and she might (will, definitely _will_ ) regret this after she’s spent so long trying to kick him out, but it isn’t a bad kiss.

In fact, he might be right because he definitely seems to wake up when her lips touch his. The second kiss is much better, and the third – well, she isn’t so certain she’ll regret this at all as she drags him away from the creepy cat clock - it’s probably judging her but who cares? Not Emma - and into the other room.

-

When she wakes up, Killian’s gone, which is...well, she vaguely remembers seeing him go, clearly remembers him dropping kisses on her chest, her neck, her lips, and lastly her forehead, something softer than the others, reverent, desperate, wanting.

And she remembers his words right after, “I put my number in your phone. In case…”

She doesn’t even have a last name for him, but somehow she knows if she calls, he’ll pick up.

Speaking of her phone, she searches for it in the sheets, eyes still closed until her hands clasp around it and she peels open one eye to the brightly lit screen. With difficulty she pulls open the other, only when she notices the flashing light. Text message? Voicemail?

 _Belle_?

The text message is a confusing jumble of words that would’ve worried Emma coming from anyone else, but shatters her nerves coming from Belle. The “Emma, what is going on? Emma!” freaks her out, as do the question marks, exclamation points and links, lots of links.

Emma opens the first one with trepidation.

_Bouncer Kidnaps Prince._

“Wait, what the fuck?”

Emma feels more awake than she has in months as she scrolls through the article, a picture of her stuffing Killian in the cab at the top, more nonsense written at the bottom - nonsense about her _kidnapping_ a prince. Said prince being Killian.

Said prince being Killian.

Say it again for the people in the back: said Prince being Killian of Socaea.

Emma closes her eyes and runs through a series of emotions that can vaguely be categorized as panicked. There’s some labored breathing, racing thoughts, and a numbness taking her limbs, leaving her phone dropping from her hand and her head falling back against her pillow.

It takes her a while to get everything back under control, as much as it can be when her life is slipping from her fingers.

But -

There are no cops knocking at her door. Or banging it down. In fact, her apartment is as quiet as it ever is on a Sunday afternoon. She can hear her neighbors moving around next door, dishes clattering, and her _other_ neighbors trying to wrangle their screaming toddlers.

So...

She takes a deep, calming breath, picks up her phone again, and clicks the second link.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided on a Tuesday posting schedule and I'm posting this rather early this Tuesday so I can get it in before work (and make the part of my brain shouting "update update update!" shut the hell up. I'm truly blown away by the response to the first chapter, every single comment and kudos made me squeal with happinesss, and I hope that you'll continue to like where the story goes (and it's got quite a ways to go). Again, a huge thanks to @blondecrowns and @bluestoplights for being the angels that they are.

The second, third, and fourth links aren’t any better than the first, but silver lining? They’re written by more reputable sources than the Daily Mail so Emma isn’t characterized as some kind of female serial killer netting herself a prince - she’s just an obsessed fan wanting a piece of him.

Okay, her silver lining fucking sucks.

She closes all the links with a furious swipe of her fingers that leaves her screen smudged. Wiping it off with the sheets, calmly, calmly, she scrolls through her contacts, searching for his name in the list. It isn’t a hard find, her contacts mainly consist of the Chinese, Thai, and Brazilian delivery joints close by, interspersed with the number for the local urgent care, some references from her last few jobs, and her landlord.

“Kill Him Slowly,” Emma reads. She shakes away the murder from her eyes, and if she’d been capable of a smile, she might’ve given one at the “Killian Solo” saved there. As it is, she wants to phase him out of existence - and yes, that’s a Star Trek reference, not a Star Wars one, she can like both, dammit.

She lingers over the call button, but opts against it for the moment. She needs to gather herself, do some damage control, and besides, her phone is ringing again and it’s Belle’s number flashing across the screen.

Gods, it’s a wonder that Gold himself hasn’t dialed in, but considering the circumstances, it doesn’t surprise her. He’s the type to keep his hands clean. Before she accepted his job offer, Emma did her research on him - because that’s what she does, she’s gone into too many situations blind to not know the power of a simple google search. There were lots of whispers of shady dealings but Gold stayed clear of being more than just an innocent bystander in the allegations in all the reports Emma found, which were very few and extremely far between.

And he has to be that way if he’s helped Killian’s family...the _Royal Family of Socaea_... The Royal Fucking Family.

And she thought her relationship with Matt “fucking already married” Parker, was the worst damage she could do to herself.

By the time she’s done musing (read: screaming internally), she’s missed Belle’s call, so she presses callback and after only a ring, Belle picks up. Surprisingly, Belle is quiet and calm, when she says, “Emma, perhaps you should meet me at the bookstore to discuss this?”

She must’ve gotten all of her freaking out done through the text messages. Emma tries to adopt her serenity, and manages albeit with difficulty, “I’ll see you there in about 45 minutes. I need to get myself together.”

An understatement sure to come back to bite her in the ass.

“I’ll be here. You should maybe come through the back. The passcode is 0273.”

Emma grunts her reply, and Belle says, “See you soon,” before ending the call. Emma kind of misses dial tones. That kind of buzzing of a hung up phone would really help clear her head of the thoughts bouncing off her skull.

She is _not_ going to let this get the better of her. She isn’t so she gets up and throws herself into action, stalking towards the bathroom and cleaning herself in close to record time. Perhaps this event (situation? nightmare?) should’ve been enough to beat her ‘overslept and nearly missed her bus out of DC’ shower, but she lingers for a moment over the red hickeys on her belly, shower gel slipping out of her hand and nearly causing serious injury to her foot.

Clean and dressed in her most inconspicuous, “just a regular New Yorker too lazy to actually get dressed” sweatpants and hoodie, she throws on a pair of sunglasses and slips out of her apartment. Standing on the street corner for a moment, she considers taking the bug, but remembers that she’s trying not to scream ‘prince kidnapping madwoman,’ so she dashes the thought and makes her way towards the local subway station.

The 1 takes her close enough to Belle's bookstore that it isn’t a hassle. It’s how she originally discovered it and first met Belle, when her car had a flat and she had to take the 1, needed a place to linger while she waited for her bond, and ended up buying a beat-up copy of the Sorcerer’s Stone that Belle brought out just for her after she admitted a fondness for used books.

Emma doesn’t hide her face on the train, but she does put in her headphones and stares down her phone studiously. No better way to blend in on the NYC subway than to look like you could give less than a fuck about the people around you.

At her stop, she gets out of the station only to come face to face with her ass on the cover of a magazine. It’s not the worst shot of her they could’ve gotten, and gods, Killian looks like shit in that picture, drugged out of his mind - and ooh, that’s the story this magazine is going with, that Emma drugged him.

She wants to stomp her foot and scream, “When would I have the goddamn time? I was on the door for 10 hours straight on a Saturday night. When. Would. I. Have. The. _Time_?” Instead, she walks past the magazines, not bothering to turn her path for the men refusing to walk on the right side of the sidewalk, although wilting away would be a better idea, given the circumstances.

Emma’s in a mood by the time she punches in the passcode to Belle’s backdoor and enters the bookstore. Belle’s quiet cashier looks up at Emma and melts away into the shelves in sheer terror. Emma tries to adjust her expression but she must do a shit job of it because upon noticing her, Belle immediately takes her by the arm and leads her into her office without a word.

It’s silent as she stares at the back wall until Belle, fiercely brave Belle, says, “I know you didn’t kidnap Prince Killian. He called to inform us of that this morning. Explained that you helped him out, actually despite what the...photos would have us believe.”

Emma’s impressed that Belle manages to say that like it isn’t obvious Emma took him home and screwed him. Impressed that Belle holds her gaze as long as she does.

“Did he say anything else?” Emma asks.

Belle frowns. “You haven’t spoken to him since…”

Since we played the horizontal tango? No.

Emma sighs. “I’m going to call him.”

Trepidation takes hold of her as she pulls out her phone again and finds “Killian Solo” in her contacts. It isn’t like her and Belle are _friends_. Not really, which is Emma’s fault not Belle’s, but it’s definitely nice to have her there for some kind of physical support as Emma dials Killian’s number, if only to stop Emma from punching a wall or throwing Belle’s brand new Mac out the window in frustration.

Like Belle, Killian picks up on the first ring, “Emma,” he breathes into the line like - oh god, she’s not thinking about how he breathed it into her skin when he was kissing his way down her belly.

Emma clutches at the strings of her hoodie, refusing to think beyond her demanded, “What the hell are we going to do about this?”

“We? I was going to handle this, Emma.”

He sounds so astonished by the absolutely _preposterous_ suggestion that Emma might actually want to be a part of fixing this situation. The situation that she is a _huge_ part of. She feels a vein throb in her forehead, her hand inching towards the flower pot.

She snarls into the line, “That isn’t how this shit works. When you’re some kind of - some kind of -” The designation gets stuck on her tongue. _Prince. Royalty. Mr. No Last Name because your last name is your fucking country._ She blows out a breath. “We need to talk.”

He’s quick on the uptake, says, “In person, right. That’s smart but I’m kind of - where are you?”

Sarcasm comes to her aid, tempering out the anger in her reply. “Belle’s bookstore. You know Belle, right? Works for Gold, your family friend. I’m sure he can give you the address.”

It’s quiet on the line before he says, “Right. I’ll see you soon.”

“How soon?” Emma asks.

She hears voices in the background, and Killian answers “Half an hour at the most.”

“Alright. Bye.”

“I -”

She hangs up on whatever he means to say. Stupid, really, it could’ve been important but that one short non-conversation tested her nerves. Admittedly, he sounded like he was trying to be rational about the situation, but he can afford that at the moment. She can’t. All she can do is panic because she fucked a prince and her ass is all over the gossip mags and on the New York Times website for god’s sake.

Maybe even CNN too.

Probably even Fox News.

Emma shudders at the thought.

Belle catches her mid-imagining herself being discussed by the lizard people Fox calls reporters, and says gently, “Emma, I have to go back out there, but you can wait here?”

(What a nicely worded, “Please don’t bring reporters into my bookstore by showing your face.”)

Emma moves, her body stiff with tension as she takes a seat at Belle’s desk. She turns to the Mac she considered tossing and asks, “Can I get your password? I have to check something.”

“It’s beautyoftheball,” Belle says and exits the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

During the interim in which she waits for Killian to get himself to the bookstore, she reads as much up on the Royal Family of Socaea, which is a lot, mostly centered on Killian and his _strained_ relationship with the Princess Regina, who was heir presumptive (Emma wikis this, and then royal titles, lines of succession, the difference between a duke and a grand duke, whether she can just say fuck it all and disappear off the planet; surprisingly that last one did not have a wiki entry) until it came out that the Duke’s son was actually the King’s son, Regina’s older brother (literally what the fuck) and thus, the next in line for the throne.

Belle comes back once when Emma has slammed her face into the desk, seeking her sanity in the cool plastic top, but it’s a 404 Error: Sanity Not Found as she lifts her head slightly to give Belle a pleading look.

Belle returns soon after that with a coffee and a nervous smile that screams, “Your hell has only just begun.”

The coffee has no cream or sugar. Exactly the kind of bitter to match Emma’s mood, especially when Belle stays as Emma sips at the coffee, rocking back and forth until she finally finds steady ground and strong enough will to say, “He’s waiting in Wildest Dreams.”

“That’s funny.”

It’s really _not_ funny, not at all, but she’d hoped saying it aloud would make it so, that him waiting for her in the Romantic Fantasy section could be made humorous instead of rage inducing.

_Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d one day be able to say I fucked a prince! I’m living the fantasy!_

Living the Dream.

Emma gets out of her seat and gives Belle one unnecessarily hard look before she opens the door and picks her way through the perfectly disordered shelves to Wildest Dreams.

He’s standing with his back to her, rubbing at his head, which makes her hesitate. Only for a moment, a flash of worry takes her that he still has that headache even though he swore as he was -

( _As_ he kissed up her thigh, mouth seeking a higher destination, he murmured, “Your skin is the perfect remedy for a headache. Amazing."

_Wonderful._

_Beautiful._

And then his lips found their mark and -)

Killian turns around and immediately steps towards her, only stopping when she stumbles back, fists clenching, readying herself instinctively for a fight.

Deep breath, rip off the Band-Aid, take some skin along with it.

“So, you’re a prince,” Emma says bluntly.

His expressions run the gamut of responses - a furrowed brow, a lifted one, gaping mouth and blushing cheeks - finally settling on a slight smirk.

“I’m just a figurehead, really!”

“A dickhead, _really,_ ” Emma says.

“Okay, that’s called for,” he says.

“Asshole, jerkwad,” she continues, about to pull out all the stops.

There’s some choice curses she’s been saving just for a moment like this.

Killian raises his hand. “That however is not.”

“Really?”

Emma lifts an eyebrow, and he scrapes his hand over his eyes, grins wryly.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Emma can’t say that she finds the same humor in the situation. Stiffly, she says, “Definitely right.”

“As much as I’m enjoying this back and forth…”

Emma sucks in a breath, and a million questions come to mind but (unthinkingly perhaps, except that this is something she’s definitely thinking about now that she’s left the bug parked in front of her apartment like a big yellow ‘Guess which kidnapper lives here?’ arrow), she asks, “Do you think they know where I live already?”

They who? Everyone.

“Most likely,” he confirms softly.

He reaches out his hand. Emma ignores it. She really doesn’t want his sympathy right now, as she grits out, “And here I was worried about you scouting out my place.”

She adjusts her thought process, maybe she should find some humor in the situation. Find some way to keep herself from falling into utter rage.

“In all likelihood, you’ll need an escort back to your apartment," Killian says.

“I can handle myself,” Emma says.

It’s true. She can. This task however, seems a bit more daunting than catching a runner or “escorting” an unruly guest out of Gold’s, or even talking to the asshole himself, and they both see that.

(Her past is probably already on the AOL homepage for all the world to see as well.)

“I know that, Emma,” he says softly. “And you handled me just fine.”

In lieu of acknowledging the innuendo (because it was unintentional, she tells herself, and he doesn’t actually want you to strangle him) Emma plops down on the bench and stares over at the books lined along the fake window. Ella Enchanted. Snow White Retold. The Princess Bride. Life is unfair. Life is shit. But this is some next level Hell created specifically for her.

Fuck a prince? End up surrounded by novelized reminders of it.

“But, this is going to be tough to deal with on your own.”

“I’m used to it,” Emma says.

“But you don’t have to be.”

There’s a pause in the conversation, one that she has no intention of lingering in, giving him a chance to read her stiffening shoulders and that bite in her cheek, the way she reaches up without meaning to -

“You didn’t expect to see me again,” Emma snaps.

He doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t look away from the challenge in her words.

Emma presses on. “So, once I found out because that’s not something you can hide, I would’ve dealt with this on my own anyway…”

She stares at Cinderella Retold, the Cinderella on the cover placing the glass slipper on the stair, an invitation, “If you want me, come find me.”

(He left his number in her phone.)

“What if I had called you? What lie would you have told me then?” Emma questions.

He stares at her, another pause in the conversation that she doesn’t want to linger in, but his surprise is quiet even as it rings warning bells in her ears, too late, too late for her to take back her words.

“You had plans to call me?”

“I -” She stammers. “No, I just would’ve checked up on you. You hit your head on the floor. I would’ve wanted to know you made it home alive and I wasn’t accused of murder. With my DNA all over the body and all.”

She winces, but thankfully that softness eases from his expression and he smirks instead.

It doesn’t last long, however because even while he replies sarcastically, “Your concern is truly touching,” his sincerity betrays him. Emma thinks better of looking him in the eye when he says, “I didn’t lie to you. I was honestly surprised you didn’t know. It was refreshing.”

Which - the sincerity only makes it worse. Emma snaps, her gaze returned to him.

“Oh fuck, you’re pulling that pauper for a day card? ‘She doesn’t know my title and she likes me for who I truly am, she _must_ be the one!’ That is bullshit. People are whole package deals, royal lineage and all, and if I’d known…”

She frowns, unable to find a way to finish that. Because if she’d known, what the hell would she have done? Pretend it never happened? She’s done that when things have gotten rough. Shove it aside, mark it down as another mistake? She’s done that, too.

Hold it to her as one of those memories that she’d rather not have reality touch?

(She’s done that, but for so few things, only those precious things, and she can’t consider last night as one, she _can’t_.)

“You wouldn’t have come near me?” Killian suggests.

“No, that’s not it -”

He brightens again at her slip of the tongue (read: slip, fall on her ass and break her neck of the tongue.) As Killian walks towards her, Emma slides over on the bench, making room for him. She can begrudge him everything else, but she’s not petty. If he wants to sit...well, his _Highness_ can take whatever seat he likes.

(She doesn’t have to be petty when she can be as bitter as that.) 

“I’m truly sorry that I lied to you, Emma.”

She allows the silence this time, if only to give her time to think, to add this whole conversation in with the events of last night. After a moment, she turns into him. Their knees brush, and she pulls back a bit as she says, “You said I should’ve known the guy. The one you were going after.”

Killian’s hand twitches, the one with the prosthetic, fingers curling into a fist, “Yeah, he’s probably the one who took the pictures. Has his own show, creatively titled, ‘The Royal Zoo.’”

“I don’t watch gossip shows,” Emma says.

But she does know the Royal Zoo. It has a column in the newspaper she picks up when she’s out. And - the image clicks, Sidney Glass’ smile - he’s right, she could’ve put the name to the face if she’d studied the grainy picture better.

“That fucking asshole, that’s the guy who helped me get you to the cab. The one who held the door open for me. How did he -”

She slaps the flat of her hand to the wall in frustration. Princess Diaries goes toppling to the floor at Killian’s feet. He glances down at it, his mouth quirking slightly.

Part of her wants to ask if Mia’s story speaks to him. The other part of her doesn’t think it’s a good time to admit how much she enjoyed those movies when she has a prince gazing at her. Both parts agree that asking Killian that would be the worst idea in history.

Emma settles on asking, “Why were you meeting him?”

Killian grins at that. “He told me he had something newsworthy to share. Didn’t know that would be me.”

How evasive. It’s not a lie, but he hadn’t lied last night either, and look how that ended, look at all the shit it’s begun.

“So, how did you plan to spin this?”

He grins at that, too. “No idea.”

“Seriously?”

Killian nods.

He’s serious. Unbelievable. He’s _serious_.

“Every site thinks I’m a kidnapper of some kind, obsessed fan, serial killer who drugged you. And you had no plans on how to clear that up?” Emma demands.

He rubs his jaw, and replies, “I could explain how you simply helped me after I had a spill at the club but that brings up other questions.”

“Such as?”

Looking at her like he knows that she knows the answer to that (which she does, but _still_ ), he says, “Why you took me back to your home instead of my hotel or a hospital. Why I stayed the night.”

“Just tell them the truth, then.”

Could be no worse than what they already think.

Killian shakes his head negatively at that. “You really have no idea what you’re asking with that one. The kind of vitriol you’d receive.”

“Could it be worse than the Black Swan?” Emma poses.

“Oi, that’s actually a good one,” Killian says.

Emma’s the one who grins this time, ducking her head in a snorted, “I know, I was surprised too.”

The touch to her knee draws her gaze back up and he says, “I’m having a thought.”

“Just the one?” Emma asks.

“About your work with Gold,” Killian says.

“Your family friend,” Emma says, watching for the angry twitch in his jaw. Killian doesn’t disappoint. “I’ll never be able to go back to that job again. All Gold’s customers will be wary of me kidnapping them. It’ll be bad for the atmosphere.”

“I’m sure most of Gold’s customers wouldn’t be adverse to you kidnapping them,” Killian says.

“Not everyone’s like you,” Emma replies.

“True.”

He clears his throat, a curious look in his eyes before he tilts his head, staring just past her shoulder and says very slowly, with deep consideration, “I have a solution, but I’m not sure if you’ll appreciate it, given everything.”

“Given what?”

His gaze returns to her at the last part, blue eyes boring into her like he’s trying to read past her confusion to something she can’t fathom.

“The fact that you’re buzzing with desire to punch me in the face.”

He noticed that? How astute.

“I hate anticipation, Killian. Just tell me.”

“You could play my partner.”

Not even a shrug to belie the seriousness in his tone.

“Your what now?”

“My girlfriend.”

“I know what partner means,” Emma says. She shoots him a hushing look. “But why would you -”

“You’re the one that suggested I tell everyone the truth. I’m just trying to make it less likely to cause you any grievous harm,” Killian explains.

He isn’t lying but there has to be more to it than that. Still she replies sardonically, “Thoughtful.”

His response is more sincere. “It’ll cover you until this situation blows over.”

“What part of dating you will make this all blow over?”

“The part where you’re not accused of trying to murder me?” Killian replies, falling into sarcasm as well.

He’s frustrated, but a moment later, his shoulders slide down and he takes his hand across his prosthetic one, tracing his fingers along it. The prosthetic fingers twitch, but just a little too late for it to be natural. His smile isn’t natural either, when he gives it, a failed attempt at hiding that Emma wishes had actually worked when he says, “My people have been fielding calls about my injuries from your attack, and have already assured the NYPD that you don’t need to be picked up for assault and kidnapping, though some precincts don’t seem to have been contacted as of yet. I answered one of those calls myself. A concerned citizen saw you on the subway and informed the officer at their stop. This is a complete mess, Emma, and it’s my own bloody fault, but I think that we can make this work. Whatever you decide, I shall make sure you aren’t penalized for it. Gold won’t want to…”

He trails off at that, frowning.

“He’ll fire me anyway,” Emma says. “Or use me as promotion for his club. Neither is what I want. So.” Deep breath, rip the Band-Aid off, bite your tongue at the scream. “So, you’ll have to pay me. A retainer fee to cover...damages.” He blinks at that and she chooses to ignore the twitching of his smile. “And an hourly fee for any time spent together.”

“I should make it clear that due to my obligations in my homeland, you would have to travel with me,” Killian says.

Emma shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to go overseas.” She quiets, and says, “How is any of this beneficial to you? Your ‘people’ must have done a full background check before you even left my apartment this morning.” She shakes her head and says, “What would an orphan with a criminal record do for you?”

“Offer me a hand when I’ve landed headfirst on the floor?”

Killian winks and takes his fingers from his own palm to rest them on her knee. Despite the joking tone of his words, Emma feels the weight of his meaning as surely as she feels the weight of his palm, the rubbing of his thumb over the curve of her knee.

It’s comforting in a way it shouldn’t be when her life is slipping from her fingers. It isn’t like that hasn’t happened before. This isn’t the first time that she’s had to claw her way up from the bottom. It’s just now, she’s reaching for a place a tad higher than reformed criminal.

A Prince’s Partner.

Sounds like a book she’d find hanging around this section of Belle’s.

With a challenge to her tone, she poses, “You know I wasn’t doing that out of the kindness of my heart, right? Helping you?”

“You were protecting yourself, searching for a way out of an impossible situation,” Killian says.

Emma blinks. _How_ astute.

“I couldn’t help myself last night, but this time, you don’t have to shoulder the burden alone.”

“You are heavy,” Emma says. When he smiles at that, assessing her with careful eyes, Emma looks away and says, “When does this whole thing start?”

“I believe it already started, Emma.” Emma shakes her head, frowning and he says, “Six months ago, I was in Washington, DC.”

She nods this time. “So was I. I get it.”

He sighs, his hand still rubbing her knee. When she pulls her knee away, he goes with it, but it’s with a last lingering touch.

Emma doesn’t read into that. She doesn’t have the energy to do so, not when she’s running numbers in her head. Six months, years, could it be years that she’ll have to play the part? How many hours playing the _partner_ before curious eyes? How many minutes spent wondering about this, wondering about that? Thinking about girls finding out they’re princesses and staring at the floor…

“This will take some getting used to,” Emma says, to cover the silence and the way her eyes are glued to the book on the floor.

Killian merely sighs and says, “So, how much do you think you’ll have to pay your landlord for the cat?”

Emma snorts, grateful for the smile, the real smile he gives her when she looks up and meets his eyes. “I’ll add that to my retainer fee.”

“You’ll buy my kingdom out from under me at that rate.”

She looks away and bends down to pick up the fallen book. As she’s turning to place it back on the shelf, she murmurs, “I always wondered what it was like wear a crown.”

Vaguely, she remembers, only vaguely, the promise of one, _Emma’s Fifth Birthday_ , pink unicorns and bejeweled wands.

“Not as fun as it sounds,” Killian says.

Emma turns, plastering a smile on her face. “Yeah, I’m sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday!!! I flipped it this chapter, so enjoy some Killian POV this time. As always, thanks to @blondecrowns and@bluestoplights for not killing me given how many times I bugged them about this chapter, and thanks for the wonderful response to this, seriously makes my life.

It’s insulting, in a way, how she just seems to think that he’s going to screw everything up simply because he’s made a rather monumental attempt of screwing everything up.

She could try to be a bit understanding of the situation, of how she looked last night, completely exhausted, her nose wrinkled in annoyance, and her blonde hair falling in her face. She could look at it from his point of view, beautiful woman who’d already proven in, albeit, a very brutal way, that she was more than capable of knocking him off his feet, not just with a casual sidestep, but with her smile, tugged from wherever she sought to hide them and an energy to her that even her exhaustion could not hide. How could he have done anything but what he’d done? How could he have let her go without kissing her senseless, without tasting every inch of her and trying to memorize it through the pounding in his skull?

How could he have gone another moment of his life without sharing in hers at least for a little while longer?

Still, he indulges her. When she makes him step aside so she can talk to her landlord, he allows it, simply because it isn’t his to allow anyway. It’s her life and it may now be a life that she’s forced to share with him due to his own foolishness - getting drunk around Sidney Glass, drinking in Robert _Gold’s_ club - but he’s not going to start throwing his weight around (as if she wouldn’t throw it right back and farther than him, even).

Killian only speaks when the landlord, a stubby old man with grey eyebrows and jet black dyed hair, turns to him and says, “Aren’t you that guy in the newspaper and -”

As the landlord’s eyes swivel towards Emma, Killian cuts in, “Of course not, mate. I may look like a movie star -” Emma snorts at that - “But trust me, no one would put my face on a magazine.”

“Newspaper,” Emma’s landlord grumbles. “It was the Post.”

“ _Just_ the Post?” Emma retorts.

Killian recovers the landlord’s attention quickly when he says, “Hey, there’s a cat in the apartment. How much for it?”

Bewildered and suspicious isn’t an attractive look on the old man, a squint that makes him look like the bathroom isn’t close enough when he says, “The clock? It isn’t for sale."

“Why not?” Killian asks.

“It’s an heirloom.”

“An heirloom?” Killian parrots in disbelief.

“This is going to take a while, isn’t it?” Emma asks, looking between Killian and her landlord. She gives Killian a pat on the shoulder, her hand lingering long enough for him to memorize the weight of it, her light grip, when she says, “Good luck, buddy.”

“Buddy?” he pouts.

Emma slides her hand away and walks past him, calling over her shoulder, “I’m going to start boxing things. You two play nice.”

It’s only after he settles on a neat sum of $699 for the cat clock - the things Killian does to see a woman smile - that he joins Emma in her apartment.

“How much did he take you for?” 

Killian shrugs at her amusement. “$699. An excellent bargain.”

“Oh, you have a way with words if you got him to sell it for less than an arm and a leg,” Emma says.

Killian frowns at that. “I think he wanted more than my arm and leg. We should hurry this along, as I’m certain he didn’t believe me about the Post.”

“You think? ‘I may look like a movie star,’ Jesus, Killian, that’s the kind of arrogance newspapers are made to exploit.” Emma shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “I’m almost done.”

“Almost done?” Killian asks.

There are only three boxes in front of him, small ones at that, and draped across her couch are a few jackets, a red leather one catching his eye. It’s the one that Emma grabs and slips into while he continues to stare, at the boxes, at the pieces of her life she deems worth taking with her.

“I’m not sentimental,” Emma says at his stare.

Peeking into one of the boxes, he smiles, and says, “But you took the Xbox.”

“I am sane,” Emma shoots back.

He grins. He could get used to this easy back and forth, but nothing about this is going to be easy once they leave this apartment.

They still have to see Gold.

He clenches his teeth together and is surprised when Emma says, “What’s with the grim look?”

“We’re flying back to Socaea,” he lies, in a way that isn’t exactly deceptive as it just is not the whole truth. “I’m not one for air travel.”

“What? Do you prefer boat?”

He doesn’t reply and she throws her head back, laughing almost, “You _do_. You’d prefer we make the 3000 mile journey by _boat_.”

“By _ship_ , Swan, and you approximated the distance?”

“By ship,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. She places her hands on her hips and says, “Well, when you drop your entire life in a day, you want to know the basics, distance to be travelled being one of them.”

Killian flinches. He wants to apologize again, but there’s nothing more to be said than what he’s already said - nothing more that he can risk. He scrubs a hand over his jaw and questions, “Do you need any assistance getting anything else together?”

She waves him off. “No, I’m all set.”

She looks around her apartment and as her eyes settle on the place around her, her face falls. She reaches up, and he noted the necklace she wore last night, when he was nosing it aside to place kisses in the freckled valley of her breasts, but he notes it differently this time, notes how she shifts on her feet, how she dashes the reaching motion with a series of quick blinks. Blowing out a breath, Emma stares at him directly and says, “Speaking of shipping, I need to add the cost of shipping my car out of country to my fees.”

“Your car?”

“I’m not leaving the bug.”

He tilts his head to the side, studying her and says, “I thought you weren’t sentimental?”

Instead of the retort he expects, an angry blush starts in Emma’s cheeks, her face screwing up in something like regret.

He wants to know, wants to ask -

“I’m not relying on you for whatever life I’m going to be living there. I have my car and I’m going to use it,” she states.

“I understand,” Killian says.

“Good. That we have an understanding. I’ll find some kind of job there, something low-key.”

Killian bites back his argument because she already knows how unlikely that will be, looks at him with a hopeless dropping of her shoulders, but there’s a spark in her eyes like she’s willing to fight for it.

He crosses the distance between them. With a light smile, he says, “You know, this could be categorized as an international incident.”

Emma’s expression lifts a little. “Have I tainted relations between the United States and Socaea? Does this mean war?”

“In Socaea, we export love, not war,” he murmurs.

She throws her head back, snorting. “Yeah, okay. Help me carry the boxes out to your car before my landlord figures this all out.”

“And what is there to figure out, love?”

She doesn’t reply to that, just sighs soft and keeps walking away.

-

“I see why you like that car,” Killian says. “Big Bird yellow certainly has its allure.”

Emma makes a strangled noise, so Killian turns for a second to see her fiddling with her sunglasses. Trying for disguised and looking just as radiant as before.

“You get Sesame Street in your country, how nice.” Without missing a beat, she asks, “Why were there no reporters at my apartment?”

He sniffs in minor offense. “My people, as you have referred to them, are excellent at what they do.”

“That’s not answering my question. What _did_ they do?”

“Released a false address to a vacant lot,” Killian replies.

Her response is so charged that he startles a bit at her angry, “Oh great, now the next story will be about homeless serial killers. It’s bad enough having to live on the streets. People are already afraid of you. Afraid of what you might do for a proper meal, a shower, a warm bed...”

Emma trails off, a nervous fidgeting following her words. She doesn’t want to talk about this, and “orphan with a criminal record” would say enough without him having had a detailed report of her past read to him as he tried to calm the hell he’d created.

He feels Emma’s eyes on him.

She doesn’t want to talk about this, so he gives her the moment, and posits, “Or, rather, the story will be about lying princes.”

“Or that,” Emma concedes.

She quiets then as they hit early evening traffic. He can’t venture to guess what she might be thinking now, the only clues he can take from her quiet studying of the window, her huffed breath on the glass.

He doesn’t _know_ Emma Swan well enough to understand the pinch in her brow or the way she clutches the handle on the door like she’s considering whether rolling out into traffic is an option. He doesn’t know her, and maybe that’s what she’s thinking: she doesn’t know him and now she’s trapped with him for who knows how long.

“This is going to hurt,” Emma murmurs.

“What is?” Killian asks, forced to turn his gaze from her as the cars before him start to inch forward.

This.

This was never going to be easy even without the pictures, the front page stories and calls from government officials. Emma was right. What would he have said if she’d called? “Thank you,” probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it’d be the only reasonable thing to say.

But the remembered feeling of her hands cupping his face as she stared into his glazed eyes makes him want to be unreasonable.

(“Thank you” would not have been at the top of his list, but “Can I see you?” certainly would have.)

“Quitting a job is never pleasant,” Emma says.

He manages to offer, “If you’d like, I can be there with you when you do it.”

As he expected, she turns him down with a quick, “No, I can handle him fine. I just need to get myself in the headspace of dealing with an asshole.”

His lips quirk up.

“You mean to tell me you weren’t already there?”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

“Shall I refresh your memory of our earlier conversation, Swan? The wound still stings,” he says.

He can’t clutch at his chest for good measure because he has both hands on the wheel, but he can pout, and he knows he does a damn good job of it because she groans, low enough that the sound has him shifting slightly.

He bites back his answering groan with some difficulty.

“I’m not sorry,” Emma says.

He shrugs away the uncomfortable ache of memory, drawing himself back into the present as best he can.

“I suppose that’s fair. Neither am I.”

Her groan this time is less a groan than it is a surprised exhale, and why she should be surprised escapes him because there was nothing about spending the night with her that he would take back except the head injury, the pressure of which he can still feel and will probably feel for several more days.

And the fact that Glass’ information is still out of his grasp.

Killian grips the wheel a little tighter and changes lanes with more force than is strictly necessary, his foot a little too heavy on the gas, but it’s a thought he’s been avoiding since he walked out of Emma’s building this morning and now that it’s at the forefront, he doesn’t yet have a handle on it.

It being his desire to find the scheming wanker and give him something truly newsworthy to think about. _Prince Strangles Paparazzi Jerkwad_ (to borrow a fitting phrase from Emma) has a nice ring to it. It would make a thrilling headline.

For the sake of the throbbing in his temple and Emma beside him, Killian dashes that thought and the associated rage and compartmentalizes. If there’s was a true threat that Glass has information on, then he would’ve published it by now. Fear aside, exposing an assassination plot on a prince by his sister (half, and there’s the crux of the issue) is exactly the kind of drama Glass thrives on.

It’s no eighth wonder of the modern world that Glass would do so; _It’s a Royal Family Affair!_ was his headline, after all.

Whatever he knows, if he _knows,_ the information must not be substantiated, and here’s the true eighth wonder: that it took a head injury for Killian to see clearly enough to recognize that meeting with Glass was pointless, only serving to ruin someone else’s life.

Killian’s excels at that.

“Okay, sailor, what’s with the worried look? Spotted some smoke on the horizon?”

His mouth quirks up again and he finds himself supremely grateful to have her sitting at his side. Outwardly he says, “Sailing metaphors, Swan?” while inwardly he bathes in her casual concern.

“Seemed appropriate, Sir. I’d-Travel-By-Boat-If-I-Could.”

“ _Ship_ ,” he stresses.

“Is it Gold?” she asks carefully.

It’s too complicated a question, and too trying to answer so he winks and replies, “It always is with a pirate.”

“Oh my god,” she groans.

“You didn’t really think I’d let that pass me by?”

Her groan is less deep this time, more amused when she says, “Ships in the night reference? Didn’t strike me as the Folk Rock type.”

“That phrase is quite a bit older than the song, and” - he flashes a grin into the mirror - “I am rather striking.”

Emma winces. “Strike out, buddy.” Sighing, she says, “You’re deflecting, when I gave you a good enough opening to divulge some of your secrets since you already know mine. Google was surprisingly light on your background considering…”

“Yes, considering.” He turns to Emma with a tight smile, and admits, “Gold took care of me when I was young.”

“You’re not talking babysitter,” she comments.

“I’m not.”

She’s quiet for a long while, but as they turn down the street to Gold’s office, she says, “What did you tell Gold about me?”

“I may have said something about you being my exceptionally lovely savior.”

Killian’s jaw twitches at yet another half-truth, and he feels Emma’s stare again. A lie of omission is still a lie, and he knows that she knows it. Still, she allows him his secret, and as much as it feels wrong that he can choose to keep his, the ones he calls his own at least, and not the ones that were kept from him for so long that he’d been caught on camera throwing a quite literal tantrum at their reveal - no, as much as it feels wrong that he can have his secrets while hers are all typed and catalogued in a portfolio at his embassy, he can’t afford to say a word.

Can’t trust anyone these days, not even the woman who’d taken his hand while he kissed his way up her thigh -

“Another question: why are you allowed out of your embassy on your own?”

Relieved at the change in subject, he says, “Because most people don’t even recognize Socaea as a country enough to recognize its sovereigns.”

“That’s _true_ , but you were on the cover of the Post.”

Gold’s building looms before him, and luckily enough, there’s a park right in front of it. Not a legal one, but he has the decals and plates to allow it. It’s one less thing to plague his mind.

“Not just the Post,” he says when he’s parked, drawing out Emma’s laughter. He revels in the tune until it fades out, and then he adds, “Truthfully, I’m allowed out because I refused to have you shepherded around by just anyone. I wouldn’t treat you that way, Emma.”

She sighs like his concern is tiresome, and he supposes it is when he didn’t show an ounce of it last night.

He wonders how she hasn’t yelled at him since this morning, how she’s managed to bite her tongue and mostly accept this situation. It is self-preservation guiding her, it must be, to keep herself hidden behind jokes and sighs because she thinks she has to just to get through this.

Killian’s a right ass.

He scrapes a hand over his face, surprised when Emma says, “You can’t sit in the car. You have to come in. Do you mind?”

They make a pair because he shoves his feelings aside as well, hides his darkening thoughts behind a sigh of his own and a smile attempting at easing her.

“Not at all.”

Killian does take a moment to prepare himself before he leaves the car, but that just gives him a moment to watch her as she walks around from the passenger side, her hair whipping in the light breeze, her sharpened profile and the slightly grim look on her face like she’s preparing for battle.

It’s a good look, but he prefers the smile.

And as he isn’t bloody likely to garner a real one anytime soon, he pops open the door and gets out to follow her inside Gold’s offices.

The entrance hall is empty, which isn’t unexpected given the time of day and Robert Gold’s distrust of most living organisms.

So, after Emma checks herself in with the blank-stared security guard, it comes as a surprise that when they call the elevator down, the doors open to reveal a dark-haired woman.

Belle - he recognizes from pictures - reaches to steady Emma as she stumbles back in surprise.

“Oh good, you’re here,” she says to Emma, whose brows have lifted high enough as to be seen over her sunglasses.

She pulls Emma into the elevator and Killian follows after, just in time to have the doors shut behind him.

He looks around him. He’s never liked closed spaces, and he likes it even less now.

“Oh good, _you_ can explain why this is good,” Emma replies to Belle.

Killian looks between the two, at Belle’s hand resting on Emma’s arm, Emma’s tension visible in the wrinkles of her leather jacket.

“Mr. Gold was sending me out to look for you. He wanted to talk to you,” Belle says, her smile fading at the words.

Emma reads it as easily as Killian does, and while Belle looks at her apologetically, she says, “He can’t fire me if I quit.”

“You’re quitting?” Belle asks, sounding a mixture of surprised and heartbroken.

Surprise that Emma echoes. “You really didn’t expect me to stay?”

“Stay?” Belle turns on Killian then, finally acknowledging his existence with a little less enthusiasm than she acknowledged Emma’s, but with the same fire. She steps into him, eyes narrowed, “Where are you taking her?”

Killian merely smiles, steps around, and wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulder. It takes a second for her to fall into it, but she must recognize the necessity of such an act even if she certainly doesn’t approve.

“Emma will be going home with me,” Killian says.

“You can’t kidnap her just because you’re royalty.”

“An excellent point. I’m not kidnapping my -” Emma shivers in his embrace, but still he says, “Girlfriend. After this incident, we thought it best that we become open about our relationship.”

Belle’s mouth thins and her eyes narrow.

She doesn’t believe him.

“Yeah, open up to me. Emma, Mr. Gold’s in his office,” she says as the doors open up to their floor.

“Yeah,” Emma says.

They both step out and when the door closes behind him, Emma shifts beneath Killian’s arm and looks up at him. There’s something in her eyes that he doesn’t recognize, but he can pinpoint her discomfort at least, and he nods at her, trying to relax her in some way. At that, she blinks and slips out from under his arm, turning on her booted heels and marching down the hall. Killian tries to watch her go, but Belle grabs his now Emma-less arm and drags him towards the lounge area, the couches looking as if no one has ever sat on them.

Killian would be surprised if they had.

“Sit,” she orders him.

He lifts a brow. “Usually people pretend that their orders are a request with me, considering my status.”

Belle ignores him and sits herself down so he obeys her order and takes the seat across from her. It’s comfortable at least, which isn’t much of a comfort when Gold’s only a few yards away and Emma’s alone with him.

He remains quiet because -

(Of everything about this place, making his skin crawl, making him want to tear across the room and demand the answers he’ll never get.)

Because Killian doesn’t yet know how to spin this, not with Belle. She knows Emma far better than he does - and apparently, she knows Emma enough to know she wasn’t in relationship before this moment.

(Or, more likely, that she wouldn’t be in a relationship with Killian.)

“You’re going to have to do better than that if people are going to believe you,” Belle says.

Killian sighs. She’s sharp and he’s too tired to pretend.

“I know.”

“Emma’s not the easiest,” Belle says, a sad note to her voice and dip to her mouth.

“Oh, she’s a tough lass to be sure,” Killian says. “But I’m willing to try.”

“Are you?” Belle asks.

She sounds giddy, excited, and suddenly far too interested in Killian, so he raises a hand and quickly clarifies, “For her sake.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

She doesn’t believe him.

“You _like_ her,” Belle states.

“What’s not to like?” Killian says.

He doesn’t mean it to sound as serious as it comes out, with as much force behind the words, but - he’s defensive, it seems.

(Can’t be anything but that, here, within the hyena’s den - a scavenger is what Gold is, appraising what’s left and taking until nothing remains.)

He looks back towards Gold’s office, but only silence greets him and the shut door is a cold reminder that Emma’s in there with him, and she can handle him certainly, but Gold will take whatever he can get.

Killian turns back, and Belle goes on, a small smile on her cheeks that Killian is uncertain whether to return. “Emma can be closed off, but that doesn’t mean it should stop you from trying to make this situation work.”

He scratches at his head. “So you’re encouraging me, now?”

She clasps her hands together, and says, “Yes, I am. Emma needs this. Not this whole situation, obviously, but she needs someone.”

“I’m certain she would disagree, and feel mighty ticked that you’re deciding what she needs for her,” Killian replies.

Belle ignores this. “If you like her, you’ll make the attempt.”

“Since we’re advising each other,” Killian says. He leans in towards her and Belle quirks an eyebrow but moves closer too, enough for him to smile around his quiet, “Don’t trust Gold,” and still have himself be heard.

“Why not?” Belle asks, surprised.

A door slams behind them, and Killian jerks to his feet immediately to see Emma walking towards him, sunglasses gone so he can see the fury in her gaze.

And the upset.

There’s anger there, but there’s also hurt and Killian instinctively moves towards her.

(Gold _took_.)

When Emma notices them, she pauses in her steps before moving more gingerly, trying and failing to fake serenity.

Killian doesn’t really give much thought to the way he wraps his arms around her, except when the door clicks open again and he hears the cane hit the floor. He presses his nose to Emma’s hair for a moment, before he looks up at Gold.

“Prince Killian. I didn’t think you would come by and all by yourself, too. That’s dangerous.”

“I’m more than capable of taking care of myself should the need arise. I’m simply here escorting Emma.”

Gold smiles, his gold tooth flashing in the light. “Escorting?”

“She and I are together,” Killian explains.

Gold nods. “Ah, yes, Belle informed me of that turn of events.”

Killian curls his mouth into a smile. Belle’s a sharp lass, truly, to figure that the truth in Gold’s hands would not be a good idea.

(A sharp lass - she needs to be to work for someone as predatory as Gold. Sharp as knives.)

“A welcome one, to be sure.”

Emma shifts in his arms and turns to face Gold.

“Again, sorry for the late notice.” She shrugs, pressing herself closer to Killian, “You know how these things go.”

“Whirlwind romances. Love happens at the most inopportune times, doesn’t it?” Gold says with a wave of his hand and a flash of a smile.

Killian returns the grin. “No time is inopportune when you’ve met someone like Emma.”

“Killian?” Emma asks, her voice so impossibly soft that it simply can’t just be for show.

And if it isn’t part of the act...

“Yes, love?” he probes, searching her face.

She smiles but it’s far from warm. “We should be going. They’re waiting on us.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Killian agrees.

Turning back to Gold, he says, “No time to catch up, and I do apologize, but duty and country calls.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure you have your schedule quite filled with this,” he says, waving at Emma.

Emma stiffens in his arms, and Killian’s smile goes colder, even. “Yes, of course.”

He dismisses Gold and turns to Belle, who smiles at Emma, a welcoming warmth to the expression, before meeting Killian’s stare. He flicks his gaze back to Gold, the best reminder of his words that he can give before he says, “Belle, it was lovely meeting you in person, lass.”

He takes her hand and kisses it briefly.

“Gold,” Killian nods.

“Have a good trip, dearie,” Gold says to Emma. “And Killian? Give my regards to your mother.”

When Killian leads Emma to the elevator, his hand is tight on hers. The grip she returns is the same.

-

She doesn’t say anything to him until they’re blocks away from Gold’s offices and then it’s with a quiet, contemplative murmur of, “I didn’t say goodbye to Belle.” Emma sighs. “I should’ve said goodbye.”

“I’m sure she understands,” Killian says.

Emma chuckles at that. “You sure?”

“Yes, I am. I spoke to her about you actually.”

Emma wheels on him, asking suspiciously, “What did you tell her?”

“ _She_ told me to treat you properly, of course. She was very concerned for you.”

“Of course, she was,” Emma says, but she sounds surprised, and after that, she remains so quiet that Killian’s almost to the embassy before she breaches the silence again.

“So.”

“Yes?” Killian asks.

“I know we’ve been doing this thing where we’re not pressing each other for things, and that’s great and all, really appreciate you trying to pretend you don’t know everything about me, but that isn’t going to work if we’re supposed to be lovers.”

He’s had much the same thought plaguing him in the silence. This isn’t going to work if they’re supposed to be lovers, all the secrets he needs to keep.

It’s been trying enough these past few hours.

(And how long will this last, will she want to keep up appearances for the sake of -)

“Partners,” Killian remarks.

Emma makes a clicking noise with her tongue, and Killian glances over to see her making a finger guns at him. He chortles as she says, “Howdy, partner, please tell me more about you so I can pretend that this is a relationship and not a one night stand gone wrong.”

His frown fades a bit, and then he says, “Where should I start?”

“What were you doing in DC?” Emma asks.

“Visiting with your Vice President.”

“Of course, of course.” A beat passes. “So, when did we get a chance to meet?”

He muses on this and finally says, “I had a moment to myself. I was given a chance to roam the city, and I took that chance and as I was playing the pauper, as you say, I ran into you. Quite literally.”

She deadpans, “Don’t be so predictable.”

“Alright, let’s see you produce a better story,” he scoffs.

Emma makes a noise at that, but she collects herself, says, “Uh, I guess you walked around like you knew the place pretty well so I decided to ask you for directions. I was there looking for a bail jump, was supposed to meet a contact at Chinatown. You offered to walk me there. It wasn’t long before I realized that you had no idea where you were going either.”

Killian nods. “This is quite creative, actually. Sounds like something I would do.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Emma says, her tone more teasing than it’s been since their visit with Gold.

He wants to ask her what Gold said, but - well, he’s still respecting what she might not want to talk about.

(And for the sake of _this_ , softer moments, calm between storms, he won’t say a word.)

“We’re almost to the Embassy,” Killian says. “There we’ll get your passport all set, and then tomorrow we’ll fly out.”

“Tomorrow?” Emma asks.

“Is that too soon?” Killian replies.

“I don’t know.” She sighs deeper than before, and says, “I’m tired.”

“Me too,” Killian admits.

“But,” she adds, “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep until this is all over.”

“It’s only just begun, love,” Killian says gently.

Emma ruffles at that. “I _know_ that.”

“We can still call this off. I can find another way,” Killian says.

“No, you can’t. Not one that’ll make us both look good,” Emma says. “And you can’t afford to look worse.”

That throws him. He glances over at her and exclaims, “I can’t?”

“I _googled_ , Killian. Your position is precarious at best. If it gets out that you were - you never did tell me why you were going after Sidney,” Emma says.

Killian gives a closer truth this time and says, “Glass said he knew something about my sister, and then when I arrived there, he tried to back out of it. I was trying to grab him and shake the information out of him.”

“The sister who you’ve usurped,” Emma points out.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Cutting right through his deflection, she says, “She hates you, doesn’t she?”

Lying about this will be more of a danger to her than a benefit so Killian confirms, “Loathes me.”

“Hmm. So, she’ll hate me, too.”

Killian nods. “That’s the likeliest scenario.”

“Great. See, this is why you need me.”

“I need you?” he asks, grinning.

“To share some of the hate,” Emma says.

Killian chuckles. “Darling, believe me, she has enough hatred to spare.”

“Goody,” Emma says cheerily enough.

She follows that with a tired sigh, however and he can see her slump down in her seat. They’re only a few blocks away from the embassy so he says, “Can’t sleep yet.”

She doesn’t respond.

As they pull up to the embassy, she finally reawakens, shifting in her seat. It only takes a cursory look at the plates and a wave from Killian at the two guards on duty for the gates to open. He’s saluted as he pulls into the driveway.

Emma looks around, but only gets a short look at the small grounds (overlarge considering it’s still within Manhattan) before they pull into the garage. It closes behind them and Killian parks, but doesn’t move. Turning in his seat, he says, “I’m not going to ask whether you’re sure again because _I’m_ sure you’ll hurt me if I do, but I will ask if you’re ready to go in there.”

“No, but I have to be anyway.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry your pretty head, your highness.”

“Please, don’t,” he groans.

“Why not, your majesty?”

He draws closer to her. Emma doesn’t move away, so he says, quietly, “Because I’m enjoying it too much.”

She smiles small and Killian struggles with the sudden urge to kiss her. His mouth goes dry as he stares at her lips, the invitation in the creases of her dimples, and he just _wants_ because once they grace those doors, it’ll be the real show. Gold was just a test. This will be the main event and he wants to taste Emma one last time before everything becomes fake. It would be real if he kissed her now, when no one is watching.

But it wouldn’t be fair.

So, he licks at his lip and draws back.

At his motion, she unsnaps her seatbelt and exits the car. She lingers by the car door, eyeing the garage entrance to his home away from home warily.

He walks over to her and takes her hand. When she looks down at their joined hands and back to him, he smiles encouragingly and says, “Ready, partner?”

“It sounded better when I said it,” Emma says.

She’s the one that drags him towards the entrance. It swings open before they’re within five feet of it, and Emma pauses briefly to regard the man that opened it.

Or perhaps, it’s his deep glare that leaves her startled in her steps.

Killian squeezes her hand and says, “Thank you, Leroy.”

Leroy grunts, his customary response and stares at Emma with narrowed eyes. “Welcome, sister.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, an up-tilt to her voice that is almost a question.

“This is Emma,” Killian introduces. He turns to Emma. “Leroy’s one of my bodyguards.”

“Is he?” Emma asks.

“Poor job I’ve done of it, right, sister? But you can’t stop an idiot from -”

“Leroy!” a voice calls from somewhere farther off.

Leroy sighs and steps aside. “Other duties call. Try not to break your head open again.” He nods at Emma and then turns away from the door, giving them a chance to enter the embassy.

Emma looks bewildered but her eyes widen, her expression going slack as she stares at the short hall. He’s not sure how it looks to her, whether it’s as over the top as it feels to him, and he doesn’t want to spoil her moment by speaking, so he waits for her to break their silence.

Waits for her to pull away, even, but she doesn’t do that, just says, “It’s bigger on the inside.”

“Yes, it is. When our embassy was established here, high ceilings and open spaces were in style,” Killian explains of the rather high ceilings and mostly empty space.

“They always are,” Emma says, a happy note in her voice.

“I take it that you approve.”

He smiles at her wondering expression, but turns his head at the sound of a door closing off to the left. The parlor. He isn’t supposed to have any guests, so anyone in that room - it’s odd. Too odd, and Killian frowns. He gently pulls at Emma’s hand, directing them towards the parlor.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asks.

“Someone’s here,” Killian says.

Not much of an explanation but he’s too busy trying to find one himself to give a better one. He presses open the door and is about to demand answers but Emma startles forward, pulling out of his grip before recognition can even set in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Emma demands of the man bent over Killian’s least favorite table.

He wishes he could remove it, but alas, it’s an heirloom, and Regina would never allow it. Her price would be much weightier than that of Emma's landlord and not one Killian's willing to meet.

And this - this is someone he didn’t expect to meet within his home. Killian grits his teeth as Glass turns and straightens at Emma’s words.

“Oh good, you’re both here. I -”

“Who the fuck did you bribe?” Emma hisses.

She steps forward again and Killian knows Glass is about to get what he bloody deserves. He’s reluctant to stop Emma – truly _loath_ to stop her when again, Glass _deserves_ it.

“No one!” Glass says. He has the nerve to look affronted even as he takes a smart step back. “I was invited.”

Emma turns to Killian at that. “You _invited_ him?”

“Of course not,” Killian swears.

Emma narrows her eyes, but she swings back around to Glass after a beat, hands raised. “You took pictures! I asked for your help and you took pictures of us.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that -” Emma’s fists clench and she looks ready to pounce. Glass takes another step back and addresses Killian, “Okay, I definitely shouldn’t have done that, but who was I to know that she wasn’t kidnapping you?”

“If you were really that concerned for his well-being, you should’ve called the cops instead of using his injury for a headline. No, you spent all that time digging up my history so you could be the first to run with the news of my kidnapping him - and even then, all that information you scraped up, you still could’ve called the cops. With my history, you know they would’ve hauled me in," Emma snaps.

Killian steps forward and places a hand on her back, feels the stiffness in her spine and rubs his knuckles up it. She turns to him, question in her gaze, and he just smiles.

“I may have been delirious from the head injury, love, but you know I would never let that happen to you again.”

Emma’s expression pinches just a fraction more before she turns her anger back on Glass.

Glass, however, is predictable, and before Emma can make good on the threat in her stance, he perks, “You would never let that happen to her? Love?” He inches forward, smartly wary of Emma, and grins, “You two are together? How long? Is it love, your highness?” In a near perfect mimic of Killian’s voice, he repeats, “Love.” He nods to himself. “Must be. I got it all wrong.”

“Are you surprised?”

“I’m not,” Emma pipes in easily.

Of course, it’s easy. They’re technically not lying. Killian isn’t, certainly.

Killian grins at her, his amusement not faked for her benefit - because this show is for her, of course, to give Glass this new idea to latch onto. He’ll take it where it needs to go, through all the right channels, to all the right ears. By the end of the day, Emma will no longer be on the watch lists but on the “One to Watch” lists. Which is a step up, if not a very high one considering Glass is one of the curators of said lists.

“How long have you two been together? How did you meet? Can I take pictures?”

Glass has his hand on his pocket and Killian moves to stop him -

“Sidney, I didn’t invite you here to take advantage of our hospitality. I invited you here to make your apologies to Prince Killian and Emma Swan.” There’s a pause, and Killian turns to face the newcomer as she says, “And as Sidney’s already signed a nondisclosure agreement in accordance with us not pressing charges against him for defamation of character, you do not have to answer any of those questions.”

Killian tries not to let his relief show so much, but he isn’t sure he manages. Thankfully, all eyes are focused on Mary Margaret as she turns to Emma.

“Hello, Emma, it’s lovely to see you again,” she says cheerily, friendly, _knowingly_.

Emma lifts a brow, but plays her part so well, that her, “Yeah, you too,” is as believable as it comes.

It almost sounds real, and when she turns to him, the look in her eyes seems real too, the same relief he feels reflected in her gaze.

“Allow me to show Mr. Glass out, and then I’ll attend to my regular duties,” Mary Margaret says, and with that, she walks towards Glass, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and easing him out the room before he can say anything more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for all your kudos and comments, they make my day :D

“This is your _regular_ duty?” Emma asks.

“I’m the Royal Bird Master, so…”

Mary Margaret smiles beatifically, holding up the blue bird hanging off her fingers to Emma, who rocks back on her heels, hands fisted at her sides.

The bird eyes her reproachfully. Mary Margaret’s birds tend to do that, and he’s about to assure Emma that it’s not her, it’s them and that even a winning smile is not enough to win _them_ over.

“…yes. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Emma lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s just a bluebird.”

“It’s an Indigo Bunting,” Mary Margaret corrects.

“A bluebird with a fancy name,” Emma states dismissively. She shakes her head, her tone edging towards annoyed, “I’m sorry. When you came in with that nondisclosure agreement line, it never pointed to _this_.”

Mary Margaret offers, “I take it you’re not a fan of birds.”

“I live in New York. Most birds here are just rats with wings.”

Mary Margaret’s nose wrinkles up, but she nods in understanding. “I suppose that is true. They’re mostly feral here.”

“Feral is an understatement,” Emma mutters.

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks towards Killian with what can only be an accusatory glare.

Mary Margaret’s mouth parts in surprised realization, of what Killian can’t fathom, and she says, looking between Killian and Emma, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m famished. I don’t think I’ve eaten since” - He catches Emma’s eyes and despite not missing a beat, he can tell Mary Margaret sees the look because she blanches - “My unfortunate meal with Glass.”

“Unfortunate?” Emma asks.

He grins and replies, “They overcooked the salmon.”

That gets a smile and a tiredly amused shake of her head out of her. “Yeah, I haven’t eaten since yesterday either. I could go for some pizza.”

Mary Margaret returns with a, “Well, we don’t have pizza, but how does a sandwich sound?”

“Grilled cheese,” Emma moans.

“I take it that’s what you’re craving?” Killian asks teasingly.

“I’m always craving that,” Emma corrects.

Killian notes this and turns to Mary Margaret. “How about I help you with the food?”

“Subtle,” Emma mutters.

He smiles in only half-apology. “We need to arrange a few things that you don’t yet have the security clearance for.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. President.” Killian grins at the moniker while Emma rolls her eyes and asks, “Can you add tomatoes to that too?”

“I can whip something up,” Killian says.

“Cool. I’ll just be here. With your flock.”

She looks around the bird room, not quite an aviary enough to call it thusly, eyeing the four other free-flying Indigo Buntings with something like suspicion, so Mary Margaret sighs and says, “It’s not a flock and - I’ll show you to the theater. It’s more comfortable.”

“The fewer beady eyes watching me, the better,” Emma says.

Mary Margaret sighs again and turns to Killian, “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

“I’ll start on the food then,” Killian says, nodding towards Emma before he leaves the room.

There’s something like an itch in his spine as he goes, only growing as the door clicks shut behind him.

To be fair, his spine has every reason to hurt given the tumble he’s had.

To be honest, it isn’t that tumble that has him bothered. It’s the one that he’s bound to take should things not take, should any of this go awry - and it already has because Emma has her life packed away in his trunk and a nondisclosure agreement doesn’t mean much when your life’s already been in the news. It’s just a brief respite from the reality.

He stops by the bathroom to find some headache relief, and then presses on to the kitchen, where he washes his hands and gets started on their _very_ late dinner and it’s as he’s slicing the cheese from the block that Mary Margaret announces herself with a softly, _sadly_ said, “Killian.”

Killian throws a look over his shoulder.

“Yes, milady?”

She just glares at him so he sighs and goes back to slicing, the tomatoes this time, while he waits for her to chastise him.

“So, the two of you are _dating_?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She pauses. He doesn’t hear her intake of breath but it is Mary Margaret so it must happen right before she blurts, “Why did you think this would be a good idea? Killian, with all that’s going on, why would you bring someone else into it? She seems so resigned to this. Killian, why would you -”

“You were the one telling me that all these trips and running off looked suspicious. What better way to alleviate said suspicions than to introduce a reason for the sneaking around?” he says, calmer probably than she expects because he does hear her inhale this time, loud, shocked, and horrified.

“So you’re _using_ her?”

Killian turns back around to look at Mary Margaret. He has to be practical about this, so for all his yearning thoughts about last night, he can’t afford to let it distract him - to ignore the truth just for the way Emma scrunched her nose with the slightest of smiles on her lips when Mary Margaret cooed at her birds.

“I’m paying her,” Killian states.

Mary Margaret quietly says, “Wow.”

“She suggested it. Which, speaking of, you’ll be able to arrange for that, won’t you?”

Mary Margaret shakes her head vehemently. “No, no I won’t. Ask Kathryn.”

Killian pouts. “You’re throwing me to the wolves.”

“No, I am not. I should, but I’m not.” Mary Margaret shakes her head, quietly scoffing, “Paying her _._ ”

Killian knows he deserves to feel judged for this - for everything about this - but still he snaps, “It’s better than her working for Gold, don’t you think?”

Mary Margaret quiets at that. It’s not a defense; it’s just a simple truth. Dating him, while probably not the ideal situation, is still better than working for that creature posing as a man.

“Yes. You’re right.”

A beat passes, easier than the one before, and Killian says, “Now, you’ll arrange for her visa, and any other documentation that she’ll need to enter the country so Regina won’t be able to send her back the moment we make our landing.”

“Yes. _I’ll_ contact Kathryn so she can handle things on our end. Does Emma have a passport?”

“She does.”

“Great, that makes this somewhat easier.”

Mary Margaret sighs after a moment and Killian looks up from the tomatoes to stare at the oven fan. He really wants to not say anything, but the longer he ignores this, the worse it’ll get, and he’s never been one to push the worst aside.

He flips the tomatoes first before he asks, “Did Glass give up anything?”

“He didn’t _have_ anything. Maybe we’re just chasing ghosts, Killian.”

“Ghosts,” he scoffs. “Yeah, you’re likely right about that.”

-

The theater is the cushiest place Emma has ever been in and she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to make herself comfortable when everything about this situation is so foreign that her head keeps spinning every time she looks at the widescreen and remembers that there’s no one in here but her and the quiet rumbling of the popcorn machine in the corner. And Mary Margaret’s smile didn’t help nor did her gentle attention, and when she asked whether Emma was okay, Emma could only reply, “I –?” and nothing more.

Not everything is so unfamiliar though - like, for instance, the roiling in her stomach. The certainty that her life has taken a turn that it’ll never rebound from - that, she’s accustomed to. Wanting something to fight just to take back even the slightest control of the situation, that’s the feeling welcoming her when Killian pops his head into the room.

Emma doesn’t punch him, for a fact.

She doesn’t really want to, not since this morning. Not since Gold’s and Killian’s hand in hers, guiding her to the elevator when all she really wanted to do was turn around and give Gold the piece of her mind that she’d held back when he was telling her...well, when he was telling her the truth, that being that she isn’t cut out for this at all, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole and the more she pushes, the more of her that scrapes away.

Killian smiles. “I have your grilled cheese and tomatoes. Even brought you a root beer.”

“Thanks,” Emma says.

Her stomach rumbles, and that sensation is familiar too. She’s _starving._

He pulls out the tray on the seat between them and sets their plates down on it, the two root beers beside it. He must’ve noticed the empty bottles in her garbage as they were taking it out earlier. It’s the only thing to account for him knowing that she likes them, but what accounts for him thinking that it was something to know?

“Mary Margaret’s getting some things together, so she won’t be joining us. It’s just you and I again, sweetheart.”

“Right.”

Emma contemplates her entire existence and how it’s all led up to this quiet moment of sharing a grilled cheese at three in the morning with a prince.

With Killian, who is a prince.

Killian, who in fact, does have a last name that isn’t stolen from a Star Wars character, which she swallows sharply around a chunk of cheese to point out, “Jones. That’s your last name.”

Killian twitches. “It was.”

“Until it became the Killian, Prince of Socaea?”

He looks over at her, setting his sandwich back down on his plate.

“Before he became the Duke - and subsequently decided that being a Duke was too much of a burden and left, my father’s - the man who they called my father, last name was Jones. He wanted his children to carry something of him, so he gifted us with that.”

Emma nods, no need to wonder at the clipped tone and the slight grit to his teeth as he recounts his father leaving. She knows a thing or two about that. She simply says, “Okay, now that family tree makes more sense.”

“What family tree?” Killian asks.

“The one on Wikipedia.”

Killian’s curiosity deepens. “Which is?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what Wikipedia is,” Emma says, shifting in her seat to stare at him better.

There’s no hint of guile to his features when he replies, “I won’t tell you then.”

“Oh my god,” she giggles, straight up giggles like everything is falling apart around her, high-pitched and too long of a sound, and she’s not having a breakdown, she knows what those feel like, but this is something in the same ballpark - exhaustion turning her delirious.

Killian leans across the tray to stare at her, and it only makes her laugh harder, the curiosity in his gaze like - and get this, he knows so much about her and so very little at the same time, and she knows now that he can cook an excellent grilled cheese but doesn’t know where he learned how to cook, an innate talent, a learned one, whether he likes it, whether he did it just for _her._

“These seats recline,” he says after a moment. “If you want to catch Netflix?”

She quiets at that. Never thought a question about Netflix would feel so intimate.

“If I lay back in this chair, I’m just going to fall asleep,” she says in her discomfort.

“It is rather late,” he agrees.

She sighs, and finally says, “Not as late as last night.”

“Last night was an anomaly, I suppose,” he says.

“Not really.”

He raises a brow, and Emma pushes back the desire to shrug. Instead she confesses, “Bouncing is a lot of late nights. So was bail bonds. So was the gas station attendant.”

“And before that?”

Emma smiles but it doesn’t last as she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a good night’s sleep. Not that I can remember.”

He lifts his root beer and nudges at hers. Curious, Emma picks her bottle up and raises it to his height. “We’re toasting?”

“To new nights of restful sleep.”

Emma eyes his bottle warily and then turns her gaze to him. He pouts slightly, and his expression falls as fast as hers does, so he’s serious when he says, “Hopefully.”

Emma holds his gaze, searching his blue eyes for that hope, to maybe capture a little for herself.

“Starting tonight,” she affirms. She finally breaks his gaze to look around the room and says, “I’m not expected to sleep in here, right?”

Killian shakes his head, takes another sip of his root beer and says, “No, of course not. Mary Margaret had a room set up for you. I’ll show you to it when you’re ready to retire.”

_This_ room hums with unspoken words, but the only discomfort she feels is the press of words already said.

_“You know I would never let that happen to you again.”_

If it were anyone else feeding her that line, she’d toss it right back in their face but Killian had looked at her like he meant it - and he keeps looking at her like he means it.

His words rang like the truth, and in her heart, where a lie would normally stoke the fires of her anger or leave her feeling just that much more broken, it didn’t hurt at all. He’d _meant_ it.

Which means?

She isn’t sure what the hell it means except that he’s here playing the boyfriend role to a tee, and Emma’s still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she’s being paid for this. In the heat of the moment, it seemed like the _thing_ to do, and now... How long was that conversation with Sidney? Five minutes? How should she bill these things anyway? These moments that are already weighing on her. How should she value the varying rates of her heartbeat every time she hears a wisp of conversation in the hall or the creak of a door opening and shutting?

“I think I’m ready to retire, as you say,” Emma says.

“I’ll clear this away after I come back. I’m sure you’re just eager to find a proper bed, right?”

“Eager, yeah.”

She gathers her shirked jacket and follows him when he walks out the door. There are paintings along the halls of people Emma vaguely recognizes from Wikipedia - smiles slightly because he knows Netflix and not Wikipedia, how, she has no idea - and to her surprise, Killian doesn’t start to recall their names or histories. Given how much he seems to like to talk, she’s surprised he doesn’t say much at all except a quiet, “This way,” when she ends up a bit ahead of him and misses their turn up the stairs.

But maybe she’s reading him all wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t want to recount the histories of all these relatives given his own tangled history with theirs, and maybe he understands that she has so many thoughts bouncing around her head that adding his own to the mix would only deepen her desire to find the nearest exit.

“Here we are,” he says, and even as she was cataloguing their route (escape is easier when you know the way out - not that she does; breaking out of the embassy walls is one thing, breaking free of her new life is another.)

He pauses with a thoughtful inclination of his head and says, “If you need anything in the night, I’m right across the hall.”

She stares at the door to his room. Simple and white, number 4 written on the outside in gilded gold.

“Keep your friends close,” Emma says.

He cracks a smile, swaying into her. “Are we friends?” he asks softly.

“Partners,” Emma objects.

He’s quiet for a breath, perhaps considering the weight of that word the way she is. Last night they were strangers, today they’re partners.

Tomorrow?

“I stand corrected, then,” Killian says.

“Keep your partners close enough to knock if they need something,” Emma jokes.

She doesn’t feel very amused though, just places her hand on the doorknob as he steps closer. Cagey is a more apt descriptor, cagey and ready to bolt.

As if sensing this, Killian backs away and says, “Goodnight and sleep well, Emma.”

She waits for him to turn towards his own room before she calls out, “Goodnight.”

Opening the door, she steps into the dark of her room. She turns and checks the lock to the door. She doesn’t give the room the serious onceover a fantasy novel would call for. Doesn’t take in the rich detail and royal decor, just kicks off her shoes, slips out of her pants and shirt, tossing them in a pile on the bedside table and crawls into the bed.

Her body hurts. Her head feels much the same.

Emma curls up on top of the sheets and falls asleep.

-

There’s a heavy knocking on the door and Killian stumbles up out of bed quickly.

“Emma?” he calls out.

“No,” a gruff, distinctly male voice calls out and Killian sighs.

On the one hand, it isn’t an emergency. They’d send someone with more tact if it was and not someone who’d pound on his door at seven in the morning.

On the other hand, there’s so much they haven’t talked about that Killian wishes she were banging at his door, making demands of his attention. It seems more like her than this quiet acceptance. Not that he can make any claim to knowing what would be more like her.

But in her apartment, she’d been entirely different.

He swings open his door with his good hand.

“Finally, Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Leroy says. “Mary Margaret needs you two downstairs within the next hour. Your plane leaves soon.”

He scrubs at his face, “Of course it does.”

“Don’t know why she didn’t just wake you up two hours ago like I suggested.”

Two hours ago Killian had still been staring at the ceiling, worried that he’d fall into too deep a slumber should Emma need him, so he can say that he’s more than grateful for those extra two hours.

“You’re awake, so I’ll get her up.”

Leroy turns on his heel and Killian reaches out to stop him. “No, no, I will,” Killian says quickly. Gods know what would happen should Leroy give her the same gruff treatment he gives Killian on the daily. “You can head to the airport.”

“Not without you.”

“Leroy,” Killian starts.

Leroy glares, not an unusual expression. “You’re not running away this time. Next thing you know, it won’t be injured prince, but dead prince all over the news. Can’t have that.”

“Who can’t have that?” Killian asks, for clarification purposes of course.

“Someone,” Leroy says.

Killian smiles. “Thank you, Leroy.”

“An hour,” Leroy says.

Killian nods and Leroy turns on his heel and heads back the way he came. Only after he’s gone does Killian stare at Emma’s door.

He crosses the hall and raises his left hand to knock only to realize that his prosthesis is still lying in his room. Nothing for it, he knocks with his right and lowers his stump to his side.

She opens the door moments later, and he blinks at her, at her bare legs and her tank top barely covering up to the top of underwear, barely covering _her_ where she’s – she’s _bare_ except for that.

He jerks his gaze up after a second of staring, trying not to _want_ at all, and says, “Good morning.”

“This can barely be counted as morning,” Emma says.

Barely: an apt choice of word.

“Not an early riser?” he asks.

“Not a 5AM riser, no,” Emma says.

“No, I suppose not given your former schedule.”

Emma shrugs that off and says, “Are we flying soon?”

He confirms this with a nod.

“Alright.” She does a little hopping motion on her feet, shaking out her arms, and he’s endeared by it, the way her face sets in determination, and she says, “I’ll shower and meet you out here in half an hour?”

He’s also lost his ability to speak as her tank top shifts over her chest and – gods, he’s a wreck.

He nods again.

“You’re quiet in the morning,” Emma says.

“Just taking in the view,” he teases.

Just to test it out.

Just to see - because she seems livelier than yesterday, and it wasn’t what he’d expected of her, the way she drew into herself after Gold’s meeting, and to think of Gold taking the fight out of her makes him want to take a fight directly to him –

“A picture would last longer,” Emma snaps.

“It would, but so would the imprint of your fist in my face.”

“Knee to the groin, and knee to the chin when you’re on the ground would last longer, actually,” Emma says.

“Ah,” Killian winces but risks a peek down at her legs again.

“I’ll put some pants on so you can recall your ability to speak,” Emma says.

She doesn’t move, however, so he asks, “Is that really what you want?”

“You, speaking?” She shrugs. “Eh. Pants? Definitely.”

“That ‘Eh’ isn’t a denial. I’ll take it,” Killian says smartly.

She backs away slightly and says, “See you in a few.” Her gaze flits across his form and then settles on his stump, only for a second before she smiles and says, “That was a goodbye.”

“Was it?”

She turns and closes the door behind her, so Killian steps back and heads to his own room.

-

The shower gives her time to think.

Think of the hickeys still on her belly and thighs, for one, which isn’t something she really wants to think about given how he stared at her bare legs and her boobs.

And it gives her time to think of yesterday, of how she’d let herself spend so much time thinking, that she hadn’t _done_ anything, and it isn’t her. It isn’t her to just lay back and take it, not since she was old enough to realize that would mean people taking until there was nothing left of her.

She isn’t going to take this. She’s going to make it work for her.

When she exits the shower, she finally looks around the room and realizes what looked rich and foreign in the dark are actually faded in the light. That it’s different, but not so different that she can’t find something to relate to like the coffee ring on the bedside table. Whoever slept in here usually liked coffee. Emma could use some herself.

She’s out the door in yesterday’s clothes only moments later, waiting in the hall for Killian. After a beat, she gives up waiting and walks across and knocks on his door.

This time, she’s the one who stares as he comes to the door. Compared to his suit, she looks ridiculously underdressed in her wrinkled clothes.

“Are we doing more than getting on the plane?” Emma asks.

Killian smiles knowingly. “Dressing up or down, you look lovely. There’s no need to worry about your looks.”

“I’m not -”

“But while we’re on the plane, you may want to change. There’s sure to be cameras when we drop off.”

Emma sighs. Cameras. Of course.

She nods sharply. “Good. I’m pumped, aren’t you?”

“Excited, yes,” Killian says, his look confused however. “You seem brighter this morning.”

“Just more ready to face the day, I guess.”

His look turns teasing at that, and he says, “Slept well, did you?”

She considers this. “Actually, I did.”

It seems to catch him off guard. He swallows sharply and his gaze flits over her face, searching.

“Of that, I’m glad,” he says. He turns back around and says, “Just let me get the rest of my things and we can join Mary Margaret downstairs.”

“Right,” she says.

She stands outside the door as he heads back inside before giving into curiosity and stepping into his room. It feels intimate, being in there because this is obviously someplace he feels comfortable. There’s a poster of Bowie on the wall and a map of the world hanging like a tapestry along the wall.

He fumbles with something, the sound drawing her gaze, and she says, “Do you need a hand?”

His bag drops to his feet and with his right hand, he waves his prosthetic. “Already got one, but thanks.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Well, I’m laughing, sweetheart - and you, you’re smiling.”

“Am I?” she can’t help herself from asking.

He turns to her at that, grinning and says, “Yes, yes you are.”

Grudgingly, she smiles a little wider. “Since you don’t need my help…”

“Actually, what I need is to put this on. We’re running a little late, so I can do it as we walk.”

He hefts his bag over his shoulder and Emma takes one last look at his room - there’s a painting of an orchid hanging right beside the bed, tiny and out of place, but beautiful still and Emma’s fingers go to the little flower on her wrist.

She turns away and follows him out the door.

-

“You got my visa in day?” Emma asks.

“The perks of being royal,” Killian says.

“Perks, right? So you can whisk someone out of the country whenever you want?” Emma demands. She doesn’t exactly sound excited at the prospect.

Killian explains, “Not exactly. But you do get that wiggle room when said country you’re whisking them out of is worried about the ramifications of denying a sovereign that was injured on their soil.”

“Even if the sovereign injured himself?”

Killian shakes his head. “Aye, even if he injured himself.”

“Good to know,” Emma says.

“Emma! Killian!”

Emma looks towards Mary Margaret and Mary Margaret’s wave is as enthusiastic as only hers can be this early in the AM. Emma stuffs her hands in her pockets and nods in Mary Margaret’s direction which is as good as she’s probably going to get until Emma gets comfortable with her.

He hopes she shall. Belle was right. Emma could use someone, and if she can only find a partner in him, at least she can find a friend in Mary Margaret.

“Why are you two lingering? Come on, it’s going to take off without you,” Mary Margaret says, her waving more frantic.

“It isn’t,” Killian protests.

Still, Emma leaves his side and treads towards Mary Margaret. He follows - it’s all he can do - and they mount the stairs to the small plane. Everyone else will follow on the commercial flight, but this one is just he, Mary Margaret, and Emma.

He couldn’t ask for better company, except perhaps, said company and a better time. One where Mary Margaret isn’t sitting Emma down in the seat across from hers, instructing her to fasten her seatbelt instead of giving her a chance to look around the plane the way she wants to - he can see it in her wide eyes, the way she turns this way and that in her seat, before finally settling, as if she’s come to terms with not allowing herself to look.

Killian frowns, a mirror of her own frustration.

“We have some coffee and breakfast sandwiches, here, and we can get food for later - it’s a long flight, but first, we need to sit you down and discuss a few things.”

Mary Margaret pulls out a clipboard from the bag at her feet and Emma snorts. Killian takes the seat beside her, and turns into her as she says, “A few things?”

“I was trying to make it less overwhelming,” Mary Margaret says with an apologetic smile.

Emma shakes her head. “Just give it to me straight.”

“Alright, then.” Mary Margaret straightens the clipboard on her lap, sweet still even as she becomes all business. “At some point after you’re off this plane, you’re going to have to give an interview. Probably several.”

“Several?”

“You’re dating a prince.” Emma stares at her, slack-jawed. Mary Margaret pats her gently, and says, “Shocking, I know, but after the colorful stories printed about you in the papers, they’re going to want to know the truth.”

Emma snorts at that. “They don’t want to know the truth, they just want to see me fuck up on national TV.”

“International,” Killian adds helpfully.

Emma punches him, _helpfully_ adding another bruise to his collection.

They’re both so willing to help each other in their time of need.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what a lot of people want, but that isn’t what you’re going to give them.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re not,” Killian agrees.

“Okay, I’m not,” Emma says, placing a hand on his arm and it’s all for the effect, he knows, the deliberate touch but that soft note to her voice speaks volumes because he called her ‘beautiful’ and she’d sighed into it. He’d called her beautiful and she _believed_ him, as she does now.

Killian stares.

“There’s a fair amount possible questions they’ll ask you. Up to and including anything about your history. But we’ll vet the interviewers beforehand, only those trusted not to go beyond the limit.”

Emma nods, a frown settling right after as, disbelievingly, she says, “How did the royal bird master get so good at PR?”

“You mean how did a princess become a royal bird master?” Killian wiggles his eyebrows, and Emma turns to look at him. “It’s all because of my charm.”

Mary Margaret is a true princess, as Killian has told her many a time. She doesn’t even look at him, just smiles demurely at Emma and says, “It’s all because my country abolished their monarchy in 1922. I’m not a princess, I just like birds.”

“And dictating what I can and cannot say to the press,” Killian adds.

This, Mary Margaret actually acknowledges. “And that, too.”

“Huh.”

Emma peers at them both thoughtfully and then says, “So - they’ll probably ask me about my prison time.”

“If you want to talk about it now, in your own words, it’ll help you before you get in front of cameras,” Mary Margaret says.

Emma clears her throat. “I was an accomplice in the theft of some very expensive watches. As I was only 17, they gave me a light sentence, a year in minimum security.”

She shrugs, after, and Killian can’t even pretend to entertain the thought that the shrug is anything but faked. Bringing it up first must seem like the easiest thing. Killian knows how that is.

“Is that everything?”

Killian shoots Mary Margaret a look, but the words are already out and Emma’s gaze hardens, “No, it’s not, but they don’t need to know anymore, do they? I committed a crime, I paid for it and I’m grateful every day that I’m not the same person who would...do something like that. I regret it. What else is there to know?”

There’s a note of panic to her voice that has Killian reaching out for her. He touches her arm and she jerks away, hissing slightly.

“That’s cold,” she says.

It’s easier for him to smile, draw his free hand to neck, scratching, and say, “I do apologize. The prosthetic doesn’t have a controlled temperature, and I am a slave to the weather,” than it is to see that trapped look in her eyes.

“So, what, you’re borrowing my warmth?”

“If that’s fine with you.”

She shrugs, leans forward again, and this time when he reaches for her, she allows it.

Killian smiles.

Emma gifts him with a tentative smile in return.

Mary Margaret flips a page on her clipboard, makes a noise to draw their attention again, and says, “We have a list of people you should know for certain.”

“This is Cora, Queen Consort to Killian’s late father, Henry.”

Emma nods at the small picture and says. “Googled her, googled Regina and Killian’s mother -”

Killian makes a noise at that - hates that his mother’s subject to whatever the internet might say about her, not that he’s ever given himself a chance to know; and Emma turns to him and says, “You look like her.”

He stares at her, feeling his cheeks warm and Emma turns a bit pink, the freckle on her nose fading just a little under the heat.

She shifts her gaze to Mary Margaret, counting off on her fingers again, “Googled Henry, Brennan, and Liam. Who else do I need to know?”

She prepared herself. Killian’s both impressed and unsurprised.

“Aurora and Phillip are visiting this week,” Killian says.

“Speaking of that,” Mary Margaret says. She eyes him like they have a lot to talk about, which Emma doesn’t miss, but she shrugs and lets it pass as Mary Margaret turns to her with a smile and says, “How large is your wardrobe?”

“What? Am I not allowed to wear jeans anymore?” Emma asks, eyeing Mary Margaret’s notes speculatively.

“Well,” Mary Margaret starts.

Emma groans, so Killian pipes in, “You are technically allowed to wear whatever you like.”

“I’m going to lean on that technicality. I like dresses. I like skirts. I like jeans. I’m not giving up any of those to play your girlfriend.”

“Play his girlfriend?”

Emma freezes at Mary Margaret’s tone. Killian does too for that matter.

“Oh no, no, you’re not playing anything. You have to _be_ his girlfriend. That’s the only way this’ll work.”

Killian raises an eyebrow.

“Mary Margaret,” he warns.

“You have to be fully invested in this. The both of you,” Mary Margaret eyes him dangerously. “Or else Regina will see right through it and then you’ll have more than reporters to worry about.”

“The Princess is worse. Gotcha.”

“She’s not worse, she’s just -”

Mary Margaret struggles for words, so Killian helps her out, leaning forward to say, “I trust that there aren’t any cameras recording us on this flight so, Mary Margaret, you can speak your mind.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t even take a breath, just says, “She’s manipulative and vengeful, two traits that won’t work in your favor should you not _be_ his girlfriend.”

“And what is she expecting out of his girlfriend?” Emma asks.

“Well.”

Killian says, “I think you’ve lived up to her expectations already, frankly.”

“Oh great, so I guess I’ll just have to exceed them.”

Her good humor makes him smile. He strokes his hand over her arm and says, “There is no glass ceiling on screw ups, Swan.”

“Ain’t no valley low,” Emma murmurs.

He looks at her quizzically and the light blush that colors her cheeks is surprising, as is her muttered, “You get Sesame Street but not Motown.”

“Is that a place?” he asks.

“I can tell you how to get there just as well as I can tell you how to get to Sesame Street.”

“Ah, so it’s _not_ a place,” he nods.

“This works.”

They both turn at the same time and Killian actually smiles at the way Emma’s lips quirk, surprise - like she forgot Mary Margaret was there.

Killian hadn’t forgotten, he’d just been preoccupied.

Which is Mary Margaret’s point, it seems, as she says, “Keep that up. Emma, maybe smile a bit more?”

“Smile?” Emma asks, tone cooling considerably.

“I think she smiles enough,” Killian says, trying to ease the tension.

Mary Margaret keeps going despite his warning, “You have to be happy with him. Not grumpy.”

“I quite like her grumpiness,” Killian says, going for humor then.

“Why is there something wrong with me and not _his_ inability to flirt every other sentence?”

“I think that just reinforces our relationship, actually.”

Emma pouts, crossing her arms over her chest, and Mary Margaret sighs, a small, understanding smile gracing her lips. She reaches over and pats Emma on the arms, and says, “I spend so much time criticizing Killian that it’s hard to break myself of the habit. I do apologize. Your grumpiness is sweet.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Emma says.

Grumpily.

Killian chortles and isn’t surprised when she glares at him. Neither is he surprised when Mary Margaret does the same. As she said herself, he’s used to it.

“What do you criticize him for?” Emma asks after a beat, curiosity melting away the grumpiness. “What should I watch out for, I mean, like is this something that could expose us?”

“Hey, I’m a master of secrets,” Killian points out.

“You are,” Emma agrees.

Her gaze bores holes in him and Killian wilts internally, has to dash the motion to scratch at his neck, his number one tell, but can’t stop his second, the tense jump in his jaw.

“If anything comes up that gets in the way of my protecting you, I will be sure to let you know,” Killian swears.

Emma sniffs. “I can protect myself.” After a beat - after staring at him and analyzing the look in his eyes, what, he isn’t sure that she sees - she says, “But thank you. That’s...comforting.”

“I’m glad.”

“Killian, tell her about the accident.”

Killian turns slowly to face Mary Margaret, not missing Emma’s conflicted expression.

“I’m sure she read it already.”

Emma makes a noise of agreement, and his hand is still on her arm, so he feels her press into him gently.

Mary Margaret nudges him so he folds, and says, “Lost my hand in a boating accident that took the life of a good friend of mine. There’s lots of speculation surrounding it, that it wasn’t an accident, that I planned it to coincide with my revelation as the heir to Socaea, looking for the pity support.”

“That sucks,” Emma says.

Killian smiles without any teeth, taking up his arm from Emma’s. “It does.”

There’s a dip into silence that’s fairly uncomfortable. Killian can feel Emma’s eyes on him, studying him the way he’s found himself studying her and he doesn’t know what she’s seeing. He doesn’t feel pitied, at least, just studied, which he isn’t sure is better given that pity usually means not seeing beyond the accident or its physical wreckage. No, Emma’s cataloguing the tightness in his jaw, his closed fist, seeing him the way he saw her.

She reaches out a hand to touch his stiff shoulder. He looks at her to find her eyes rimmed with understanding.

“...So, when do I get that coffee?” Emma asks.

The tight sensation eases from his chest. Killian laughs and unbuckles his seat belt.

“I’ll prepare it for you.”

When he comes back to his seat, Emma’s vacated hers beside him to sit next to Mary Margaret. She’s leaning close to her, but there’s a stiffness to the position that speaks of an unfamiliarity.

“...and these are some of the places you’ll want to visit on the southern island. Killian might not be able to join you for them, but if you want him to we can try to manage it.”

“If I do, I’ll let you know. I’m not trying to be more of a headache than I’ve already been.”

“You’re the furthest thing from it,” Killian cuts in, drawing Emma’s gaze up. There’s a distinct lack of annoyance for a split second before he smiles and adds, “And I shall endeavor to escort you as you explore my beautiful country.”

“Shouldn’t you be running it instead?” Emma asks skeptically.

“We have a congress for that. As I’ve said, I’m more of a figurehead. I’m there to be exported to the masses as a reason worth visiting and staying in Socaea.”

“Uh huh.” Her face pinches. “If I go by myself will there still be paps?”

Mary Margaret frowns. “Paps? Oh, you mean paparazzi. Yes, probably.”

“It’ll be good to see me on my own as well as with him. So they know I have a life outside of him and so they know we’re not on the rocks or anything. We’ll have to vary it up,” Emma says astutely.

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea.”

Emma smiles at the praise, tucking a hair behind her ear as Mary Margaret chatters on, and Killian offers her coffee to her. She takes it with another smile, a soft ‘thank you’ on her lips and then turns back into Mary Margaret.

“We’ve got way more to go,” she says.

“Lucky us.”

For the first time in a long time, Killian actually feels that way.

-

Of course, it can’t last.

Emma falls asleep halfway into their flight and Mary Margaret eases over to his side so Emma can stretch out across the seats. It’s not as comfortable as it could be, but Emma sleeps easily enough, only twisting once or twice from what he can see.

He tries not to watch her too much, but Mary Margaret sighs, and says, “I think she’ll be fine.”

“I do, too, which is…”

Which is what bothers him. To think that this upheaval is something that she could be fine with, learn to make herself fine with. It bothers him that he could roll in and destroy her life, and she could just put up with it.

She shouldn’t have to, but alas, it isn’t if either of them have a choice beyond the one they’ve already made.

Still, it _bothers_ him.

“Can I ask you something, Killian?”

“Sure,” Killian says because Mary Margaret isn’t subtle in the slightest and she’d get her answer anyway. She’s sharp – where feelings are involved, she always seems to see it. Not always the right ones, but she recognizes that it’s there.

Like the one she asks about him now, questioning, “Why didn’t you tell her about Milah?”

“I think she put two and two together,” he says.

“How would she have -” Killian looks at her significantly. Her hazel eyes widen and she says, “Oh, oh, right. She’s seen the tattoo.”

“Are you going to be able to handle that?”

“Handle what?” Killian asks, confused.

“Your massive crush,” Mary Margaret says, the words teasing, but her tone less so.

Killian smiles at that. “Is my liking her not beneficial to this enterprise?”

“Is it beneficial to _you_?”

Killian doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he says, “I’m going to doze for a bit.”

“We have to talk about Aurora and Phillip’s visit. It still needs to happen Killian.”

“Of course,” he agrees.

“It’s so soon for Emma, though,” she stresses.

Killian looks over at Emma again. She sighs soft in her sleep, a gentle snore, her arms curled up around her jacket.

“She’ll be fine,” Killian says, echoing Mary Margaret’s own earlier assessment. He turns back to Mary Margaret and stares at her directly and says, “I won’t let her be otherwise.”

He doesn’t quite sleep, but he manages a few more hours, enough to make him feel sharper when he awakens, which is necessary as Mary Margaret taps him on the shoulder and says, “There’s a camera crew waiting for us at the airport.”

He looks around and finds Emma nowhere to be found.

“She’s changing.”

“She’s done, actually,” Emma says behind him and Killian turns in his seat.

She looks lovely in her all black dress, soft lines and gentle curves, and her eyes are wide and awake. With her arms crossed over her chest, she looks ready to fight. It’s a smart look to have given the circumstances.

“I should do the same.”

“What? You have to reapply your eyeliner?”

He stands from his seat, tossing her a grin, “You noticed, eh?”

She huffs a laugh.

After cleaning the sleep from his eyes and reapplying his eyeliner, Killian returns to them just in time to prepare for landing. Emma’s taken the seat beside him again, and she nudges him in the side.

“Ready to be my doting boyfriend?”

“I’ve always been,” he says.

She smiles at that, just a small one, but enough that he doesn’t have to be careful when he lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“I can see,” Emma says as he drops her hand back down but keeps holding it.

The plane lands and Mary Margaret’s the first out of her seat.

“Checking to see if the coast is clear?” Emma asks.

“It is in the hangar, but outside of it is another beast entirely,” Killian says.

“Actually,” Mary Margaret starts.

She’s blanched which can only mean one thing.

“My sister’s here.”

“Good. Let’s get this over with,” Emma says.

He lifts both brows in surprise, hastens to follow after her when she unbuckles her seatbelt and steps towards the front of the plane. The steps are still being set up, so he has a moment to inquire, “Emma, are you -”

“Yeah,” she says as the door opens.

“Oi! You can come down!” a voice shouts and Killian winces.

It sounds like Scarlet. Scarlet and Regina, one headache multiplied to two. Killian’s luck will never change.

Emma steps down the stairs and Killian gently touches her back as he follows.

Before he can even greet Regina, in all her royal finery – bloody hell, she looks like she just had this specifically tailored as airport wear – she’s turning towards Will and sneering, “Is that any way to address a Princess? I thought you’d have better manners than that.”

Killian narrows his eyes at her as he steps down, unsure of what game she’s playing at now.

“I wasn’t addressing you, I was addressing -” Scarlet shifts on his feet, looking from Emma to Killian to Regina with faked trepidation and remorse. “I do apologize, your majesty.”

“Apologize to her. She is Killian’s fiancée after all.”

“Fiancée? Hold it, sister, we’re not engaged,” Emma says.

Killian winces internally at the way Regina smiles, a languid one that has Killian bracing himself.

“So you didn’t kidnap him and you aren’t engaged. You’d think that newspapers could be trusted to detail the truth about someone so...important.” Regina sighs, and smiles prettily. “What is the truth about you, Miss Swan?”

“The truth?”

Emma laughs and Killian turns to her in surprise as she says, “The truth about me is that I know enough not to trust everything I read in a paper.” Emma takes a breather, a moment to raise her brows, before she says, “With all due respect, you didn’t even ask my name and you’re expecting to know the ‘truth’ about me? Don’t you people usually offer tea and cookies before the dissections?”

Regina stares, and Killian rubs his hand down Emma’s back, gentle encouragement. He doesn’t have words for Regina yet. Easier to let her get hers out first.

If she can, after that.

“You’re right,” Regina says when several more long moments pass. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Princess Regina, Killian’s sister.”

She offers her hand.

Emma takes it.

He wonders what Regina’s thinking as she pulls back. No doubt she’s measured Emma’s grip and decided on her worth from that simple handshake – or even before that, from the information _her_ people no doubt pulled up when Emma’s name was first released.

“And I’m Emma Swan. Nice to meet you.”

Regina smiles again, but there’s a sourness to it that Killian recognizes easily.

“Likewise,” she says harshly.

Killian braces himself for worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly meant for this fic to have short chapters, but it seems to be getting longer and longer with each update, so I hope you enjoy this nearly 10k chapter. Thank you so much for all the kudos and the lovely comments, I die of happiness every time I read them ♥

“Hello, Killian,” Regina greets.

 _Finally_ , Emma can take a quick moment to shudder out a breath. The lazily dressed man in leather, who Regina tried to bite a hole out of, stares at her with a bored expression. When Emma catches his eye, he lifts a brow and quirks an even lazier smile.

Emma’s not seen enough of him to think of him as a potential ally, but as just another person she’ll have to pretend for - and yet, the smile is nice, if anything. It isn’t evil at least.

(She’s pretty sure Regina’s smile is the number of the beast.)

Killian’s hand is still on her back, and he steps closer as he says, “Didn’t think you’d come all the way down here just to see us.”

Regina’s eyes swivel back towards Emma and she says, “I was very eager to meet Emma.”

Of course she was. This, at least, isn’t a lie. Being happy to meet her, now that was a lie if a carefully told one. Eager to meet her, however, that’s the truth.

Regina stares at Emma, and she’s still trying to feel her out, the way she did when Emma’s hand was clasped in hers and she scraped her perfectly manicured nails against Emma’s palm to see whether Emma would wince or pull back. Emma smiles at her and Regina’s expression wrinkles again.

Yeah, her royal highness hates her.

(Who’s surprised? Is that crickets Emma hears, or just the absolute silence playing tricks on her?)

“Well, we’re all met,” the man announces. “Can we get out of here?”

Regina practically growls as she turns towards him. “You insisted on coming with me. So, you’ll wait until we’re done.”

“Will can drive back with us, if that’s better for you,” Killian suggests with a calming gesture.

Regina stares at his hand and says, “You’re too kind, Killian,” like she’d rather have bed bugs than his kindness.

“Ruby’s supposed to meet us here,” Mary Margaret announces from behind Emma.

Regina’s eyes shoot overhead to her - and well, Regina must not like very many people, because her sneer deepens as she looks over Emma’s head.

What Mary Margaret, who Emma can already tell doesn’t have a bone to hate in her body, must’ve done to warrant such loathing is beyond her. If Emma were feeling pettier, she’d say Mary Margaret probably caused her to break a nail. But she’s feeling rather more discerning, and she can see that there’s something in the way Regina snaps her fingers and says, “Ruby, you can come out of hiding.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” a voice calls out from beyond Emma’s view.

Emma looks back first, just to catch Mary Margaret’s expression as she stares at Regina, and to confirm her suspicions. There’s something there, in the teeny frown between Mary Margaret’s brow and the slight tremble of her bottom lip.

Navigating these relationships is going to be tricky as hell, and the only way she’s going to be able to do it is by finding out as much as she can, starting with the glare Regina sets on the newcomer as her heels click on the hangar floor.

“So, you were merely chilling on the other side of the hangar?” Emma calls out before she sees her.

She sees the dark hair first, and then the stripe of red, and then Ruby brushes it back and smiles brightly, and Emma feels a slight swelling in her chest. At least she’s made someone comfortable instead of just being a nuisance.

 _Someone_ with a Taser holstered on their waist and one of those funky corded radios hanging over her ear. She made the guard comfortable. So far, at least, Emma’s in no danger of being tased.

Thank god for small blessings.

“Actually, yes. I was talking to the pilot over the radio. We had to verify some things,” Ruby explains.

She crosses over to Emma and says, “I’m Ruby, and I’ll be your personal guardswoman for the duration of your stay.”

Guardswoman makes Emma think of bail bonds person, and her chest seizes up just a little at the memory.

“Emma,” she introduces. She’s already getting tired of that. Emma waves a hand. “And I really don’t need a personal guardswoman.”

Ruby laughs. “Actually, I’m Killian’s personal guardswoman so you just get me by default. Sorry about that.”

“Oi!” Killian calls out.

“That was no insult to you, Killian,” Ruby says at him.

“I know,” he says. He smiles, raking a hand through his hair and instructs, “Don’t apologize for your presence, love.”

Emma smiles slightly at that. Killian obviously likes Ruby, and if she’s going to trust him to get her through this - to be her partner in this - then she’s going to trust his judgement.

Besides, his is mirroring her own. Ruby’s smile is bright like sunshine, and Emma feels a little blinded by it, but in a good way, especially when Ruby announces, “I’ll be driving all of you home.”

“Not I. I have previous arrangements,” Regina says.

Emma stops just short of saying, “Well, that’s good.”

Will, however, does not, and Emma fights back a small shake of her head as Regina scoffs, “Killian, the company you surround yourself with does you no credit.”

“Company?” Emma asks.

Will groans. “She means the lot of us, you know.”

“I do not,” Regina says.

Liar, liar, expensive pantsuit on fire because the only credit they’re doing Killian is the kind Regina likes enough to smile through the lie, the same smile she gave when she was trying to feel Emma out with the fiancée nonsense. Emma would really like to know what paper published _that_ and whether she can legally blast that reporter off the face of the planet.

Maybe she could borrow Ruby’s Taser.

“I shall see you all at Calden, then,” Regina says smoothly moving past the fact that she’d just insulted the lot of them with an easy smile, and a toss of her head as she turns on her heel.

“Do try not to be too late, but I understand it’ll be hard given the crowd waiting for you.”

Will groans loudly so no one hears Emma’s groan over it except Killian who steps into her again and says, “You don’t have to say a word. Just smile and push past them.”

“What is with you guys and smiling?” Emma teases, relaxing against him. It’s the comfortable thing to do, at least for the moment.

“Your smile is a revelation. Forgive us for wanting to share that with the rest of the world,” Killian says. He steps in close enough that his mouth is almost to her ear when he says, “And as that’s the only thing I feel quite willing to share, they should indulge in it as best they can.”

She shivers slightly, and is _willing_ to admit that it’s more than just the cool air that blows in from the open hangar. That’s as far as she’s willing to go however, stepping away from him to say, “Can we get this over with?”

“Thank god someone’s speaking sense,” Will says.

Emma parts from Killian and somehow, as they fall into step, she ends up pressed against Mary Margaret’s side, who again reminds her, “Don’t answer any questions. Just keep moving and it’ll be over in a flash.”

“In many flashes, I’m sure,” she replies.

Mary Margaret laughs. “Those bulbs can be quite blinding.”

They march forward, Ruby at the head and Will at the back, Mary Margaret, Killian and Emma at the center, and it occurs to her with dawning horror that Will might actually be a bodyguard as well, albeit an incompetent one to be at their six. She shrugs off the thought after a moment - Mary Margaret is the more likely choice.

The airport is even smaller than it looked from overhead so it doesn’t take them long to exit the hangar and make their way through to the commercial flight area. Just long enough that Emma can get a good look around the tarmac and see out to the ocean beyond, smell the sea breeze and take in the cold wind.

Her heart starts to race as they enter the actual airport and then more so as they move through their own private security check - she’s checked for weapons which is laughable considering her dress leaves no room for it and all she could take off the plane was her black leather jacket and a small handbag only large enough to hold her phone, her passport, and some cash.

Do American dollars even work here?

It’s a question she forgot to ask, whether she’ll be paid in currency that she can use when this is over - which is a laughable thought to have when it’s only just begun.

Killian hangs by Will through security so it’s Emma, Ruby, and Mary Margaret at the front. Ruby turns to her and says, “If any of them get handsy, tug my back and I’ll tase them.”

“You can’t tase reporters,” Mary Margaret argues.

“I can if it’s warranted.”

Emma argues, “Please, no tasing. If they get handsy, I’ll handle it.”

“You can’t break their hands,” Mary Margaret says.

Emma turns to her with wide eyes, another argument on her slightly parted lips and Mary Margaret just lifts a brow significantly and says, “I know how well you did in your self-defense classes, how you handled yourself during your bail bonds career, and Killian told me for a fact that you’re overly capable.”

“Overly capable? Is that a nice way of saying violent?”

“It’s a nice way of saying that he’s impressed with how well you let him injure himself and then proceeded to carry him up the three flights of stairs to your apartment,” Mary Margaret says.

Ruby turns, nodding thoughtfully, and says, “It’s a less embarrassing way of saying that he’s turned on by your strength.”

“Ruby!” Mary Margaret cries, scandalized.

“Well, it’s true innit?” Will asks, coming up behind Emma. He taps her on the shoulder and she turns into him. With a smile he finally introduces, “Will Scarlet, at your service.”

“At whose service?” Killian asks. “Not Emma’s certainly, she doesn’t need -”

Before they can dissolve into an argument, Emma raises her hands and says, “ _She_ needs to get through this crowd, so shall we do that?”

Will’s hand slides away from her shoulder and Ruby takes the lead again. Taking a deep breath, Emma pushes out through the doors, following behind Ruby.

It’s, as Mary Margaret said, all over in a flash. No one gets handsy; in the strangest turn of events, even their questions are polite inquiries about “the state of your health following your injury, Prince Killian?” and “how did you meet?” and “can we have a comment?” - It going so far as to have her suspicious that they’ve already had their lives threatened before Ruby turned her looks on them.

Emma doesn’t ask, not until they get into the black SUV limousine - because of course, they have to roll up to the royal manor looking like the secret service escorting the president.

(Why is she surprised? _Why_ is she surprised?)

“Are your reporters usually this polite?” Emma asks.

“Yes and no. I’m honestly surprised at their good behavior, considering the circumstances of your arrival have been less than, erm, dignified?” Mary Margaret says.

She winces as she says it, and Emma nods because it’s not a jab and she isn’t taking it personally. Killian grunts like he does, however, which makes sense because they didn’t call Emma drugged out of her mind on the front page of People magazine.

“Oh, yeah, right. Regina threatened the lot of them before you came out,” Will says.

“Really?” Killian asks.

Will sneers slightly and recites, “This has been a trying time for my brother and it will only be made more so if he and our dear Emma are treated with any less than the respect that you would give me.” He turns down the sneer and says, “With Graham and Claude at her side, why wouldn’t they take her threat seriously?”

Graham. Claude. Mary Margaret looks at her and Emma knows that she’s making a note, too, no doubt to tell Emma all about them as soon as she gets a free moment.

It’s a lot of people to know in such a short time, and she doesn’t even know the people beside her. Even though she knows the weight of Killian’s hand on the small of her back, she doesn’t know how he wakes up in the morning, and this is something she _should_ know like his favorite meal, the best place they’ve visited together, whether he likes sports or Nascar or –

“I’m sure they’d take it seriously even without them by her side,” Emma comments just to shut off that steadily speeding train of thoughts from heading for a deadly collision with the reality that these are things she never would’ve known had this not turned out so wrong.

Had this gone right, she’d never be able to _consider_ the things he liked. It wouldn’t matter. He’d be gone and she’d be right where she always was.

Emma frowns.

“Oh, no doubt, my sister has that way with people. She’s a charmer,” Killian says.

Will snorts. “Charmer? More -”

“Mate,” Killian cuts in with a warning look. Emma watches him curiously as he looks across to Will and then says, “Why did you come out with her?”

“I’m a sight for sore eyes, and I was sure yours would be given the nights you two have had. And I wanted to meet Emma.” Will turns to her, curiosity in the look. “So you two have been together for six months?”

Emma nods. “Sounds about right.”

“I knew his fascination with New York couldn’t possibly be about the city. Killian’s not a city boy.”

“No, he isn’t,” Emma agrees. This she knows. “And the Hudson isn’t any body of water he’d want to be sailing on.”

“So, he hasn’t taken ya? Sailing that is.”

“Not as of yet.”

“We could stop by the bay,” Will encourages.

“We could _not_ do that,” Emma says.

Killian agrees, “She’s right. We don’t have the time today.”

“Yes, you have that interview scheduled with Sidney tomorrow,” Mary Margaret

Emma startles.

“ _Him_?”

She sighs then as Mary Margaret winces. Reasoning it out, Emma says, “That makes sense. Of course it does. Go to the guy who broke the story to begin with and tell him just how badly he got it wrong, while looking like the bigger person by allowing him to fix his mistake. Show him up on national TV.”

“International,” Killian corrects.

“Right. I forgot.” She shrugs. “I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

She looks over at Killian and says, “You’ve seen this one, right?”

“Of course, whom do you take me for?”

“A man who doesn’t know what Wikipedia is?”

He wags his finger at her, exclaiming, “You’ve won this one, Swan.”

She beams at him teasingly, knows exactly what it looks like when he beams back. Will snorts in the background and Mary Margaret is smiling when Emma turns to face her. Emma breathes out, great job, she’s doing great, but she has to keep it up for however long this drive will be -

It was easier when it was just her, Mary Margaret, and Killian, but the circle’s only going to keep growing, so she plays her role.

“Why don’t we wind down the windows and you tell me what I’m looking at,” she proposes. “I’ve only seen pictures.”

Killian replies, “You might still be in Kansas, considering. It’s all fields out here. We’re driving away from the city area.”

“Lucky us,” Will mutters.

Emma raises an eyebrow. “The life out here isn’t to your speed?”

“Molasses is more to my speed than cows and daisy fields,” Will groans.

“So you’re not a guardsman,” Emma ventures.

“I’m just Killian’s best mate,” Will says proudly.

“You’re going to scare her off with that,” Killian says.

His hand fumbles the button on the door and Emma’s blasted with cold air as it rolls down. Her hair fans out behind her and Killian says, “The weather here is a bit colder than New York at the moment.”

She nods but she’s more focused on staring out the window. Without a thought, she unbuckles her seat belt and says, “Move over?”

He does, unbuckling his, and they switch places so she’s staring out the window, into the green fields of cows chewing grass - “Are those potatoes?” - potatoes, corn, and daisies.

It’s idyllic, in a way, and it makes her shudder, in another.

She _needs_ her car.

There’s a whirring noise and Emma draws back to the front as the back of Ruby’s head comes into view. “We’re coming up to the manor soon.”

“Perfect,” Killian says.

Emma agrees with the sentiment. She’s starting to feel very claustrophobic in this car and Emma faced that phobia and won when she was eight and her foster brother at the time locked her in a closet just to see if she would break and cry.

This feels like that, a bit.

Killian presses up beside her and the tightness closing up her throat grows that much more suffocating as he brushes his fingers over her arm, goosebumps following his path.

“Does it look better than the pictures?” he asks.

She keeps her eyes glued to the view outside, not daring to look at him lest he gets one the many wrong impressions  - and as the manor comes into view, she nods, because it does, it looks tall and imposing, surrounded by more idyllic greenery and a floral arrangement that would put the local collective garden to shame.

It looks just as well loved.

Emma blinks around a sudden wetness in her eyes and she swipes at it - “The wind’s strong,” she offers before anyone can volunteer any other explanations.

Killian presses a little closer, arm sliding behind her back to wrap around her. The suffocating feeling, however, it eases with his casual embrace. Funny how those things happen.

“That’s not a manor,” she points out. “That’s a castle.”

“You noticed the turrets?” Mary Margaret laughs.

“Mary Margaret’s a fan,” Killian teases.

“I can see.”

“It’s both a manor and a castle. It’s been going through renovations since the 18th century,” Mary Margaret explains. “They’ve changed so much, but they’ve always kept the foundation. And the turrets.”

“That’s a remarkable amount of them,” Emma says.

“She never said the renovations were _good_ ,” Killian says.

He leans into say this, so the words are practically pressed to her skin. Emma draws away only to roll up the window. It’s cold.

“It’s certainly something,” Emma settles on, which makes Ruby snort from her seat in the front.

They pull up to the long driveway and it’s only then that Emma notices the car before them. They must’ve been joined by more guards somewhere along the drive because the car at the back of them certainly wasn’t there before either.

She should’ve noticed these things, but she was too busy paying attention to the tension in her shoulders and the heat of Killian at her side.

Too busy watching Will and Mary Margaret - and it’s a bit overwhelming, pretty much, but she punches through it, starts by throwing open the door the moment she can and slipping into her leather jacket as soon as she’s out. It’s cold and the leather is a familiar barrier against it.

She walks away from the car, her heels sinking into the light stones of the driveway. She should’ve worn boots, outfit be damned. She should’ve listened to her gut and not Mary Margaret’s gentle suggestions.

Emma turns to Mary Margaret with accusing eyes but her gaze can only soften when the other woman smiles at her and says, “They’re going to bring your bags up to your room. If you want to go there now…” Mary Margaret trails off and Emma senses that this is the option she least approves of. Nodding slightly, Mary Margaret says, “Or you could walk with me and we could discuss some things.”

“Mary Margaret will take care of you,” Killian says, agreeing with Mary Margaret’s suggestion.

As she turns to face him, he pulls her in, forehead pressing against hers, noses nuzzling each other's and on a whisper, he adds, “Stick with her. There’s no telling what some might ask of you should you wander off.”

“Trying to keep me safe?” she whispers back.

“Always,” he says.

Drawing back, he presses a kiss to her temple before stepping out of her space and nodding at Mary Margaret. He looks almost truly regal as he walks away, standing tall and straight, eyes forward, no looking back.

Emma turns to Mary Margaret and does the same.

-

He means to take the trek through the manor to his rooms, but Will catches up to him before he’s even stepped foot on the path and says, “Ruby’s ticked that you didn’t take her with you.”

“She’s not the first,” Killian says.

Will nods, says, “Yea, I’m ticked, too. You have your girl here and all over the papers to boot, and you didn’t bother to tell us about her? What bloody gives?”

Killian’s jaw is already jumping at that scathing remark when Will leans in and says, “Cora’s here, by the way. She came specifically to see you. She’s in the apple orchard.”

Will groans, scraping his hand down his face. “That whole family is a menace.”

Killian grins at that. “It seems my apple doesn’t fall very far from that tree.”

“Please,” Will murmurs towards the heavens.

The heavens don’t answer, only Killian’s chuckle, sounding as dark as the clouding sky.

“I’ll meet her. Go on, thanks.”

“Good luck,” Will says, and his tone is more serious this time.

Killian peers at him and, recognizing the look, he nods sharply. He looks up at the manor before him and turns away from its stone walls, leaving Will muttering something behind him. Killian’s sure of the subject, if not the words. Will warned him off this path, but what’s one disaster trying to divert another?

As bitter as it tasted in his mouth when he made his promise to Cora, at least he trusted her enough to know that she would keep hers. After all, what’s the knowledge of his father’s motives to allowing her dearest daughter to get everything she’s ever deserved?

Killian would give up his crown again just to _know_.

It’s chillier than usual as he approaches the pavilion in Regina’s apple orchard and there are already honey crisp apples rotting on the ground beneath the whipped trees, a quaint microcosm of the smile on Cora’s lips as she turns to greet him.

“Killian,” she says.

“Lady Cora.”

He bows slightly as he always does when he greets her. It amuses her a bit, he knows, but it’s also exactly what she’s looking for. It’s the respect that she craves, and even these little things help when dealing with her former majesty.

The Duchess of the Heartland Cays smiles.

“You’ve been up to a lot lately. I’m surprised you have the time to entertain me when you’re being so entertaining yourself.”

Killian returns the smile. “Really? I always have time for you, milady.”

“Oh?” She nods thoughtfully, but her smile goes cold when she says, “Just how _have_ your trips been?”

“The details are a bit of a bore,” Killian explains with a tilt of his head and a wave of his hand. “Surely you don’t want to hear about that minutiae.”

“Really? Stealing away at every city to meet up with your girlfriend might seem like a bore to you, but to me? It’s worse than any betrayal.”

“I was going to tell you,” Killian explains. “But it was too soon for us to make any grand announcements.”

“Grand announcements? It’s only me, Killian.” She shakes her head minutely and says, “I don’t have time for your games. I’ve done too much for this family to have it brought to its knees by your gallivanting alongside…” - she waves her hand - “this Emma.”

“Brought to its knees?” Killian scoffs.

Cora goes on as if he hadn’t spoke at all, and says, “You chose her, and the consequences of that decision.”

Killian could argue that choice is a two way street, and Emma didn’t choose him at all, but that’s a thought for a less charged moment, for one in which he isn’t trying not to let his control fall to pieces.

“Our agreement still stands, Cora.”

“Does it? You’ve hurt me deeply, Killian. Hurt my daughter _very_ deeply.”

“So you’re going to return the hurt in kind?” Killian posits, sharp, sharper than he intends but the anger is raking its way through and he’s already _agreed_ to step down when she wants him to - what more could she possibly ask for and yet -

Cora doesn’t flinch.

“Yes, I am. I’m going to leave you here with your thirst for answers unquenched.”

Killian steps forward. “There’s no need to be rash. We can discuss this.”

“The circumstances of your pitiful existence buy you a lot, but not my time,” Cora says.

With that, she steps down the stairs of the pavilion, but stops at the bottom step, holding a stance that at once makes her look like a monument to the cruel kings and queens of old and just like her daughter, the smile just as devious, “It’s cruel to get a lady’s hopes up. You should think on that, Killian, before _you_ go making any rash decisions.”

He does think on that as she leaves, not on her or Regina, but he thinks on Emma and how she proposed that he pay her for dragging her into this mess, something that no money could make up for, and that she claimed lack of sentimentality when she abandoned her life to be here with him.

He thinks on his mother deciding that it was better to pretend his father was the man that abandoned them when he was five years old to gamble himself to death rather than live with them any longer.

What were her hopes?

What are Emma’s?

Not this, certainly. Not this.

-

Emma pays attention to what Mary Margaret’s saying but it gets to the point where paying attention becomes too much. The wind is bitter, her thoughts are cold, and Emma would much rather be meeting these people than hearing about them.

Mary Margaret taps her on the elbow, and then pulls gently, turning Emma towards her. Her smile is soft and despite the cold whipping the short strands of her dark hair in her face, she looks bright. Even when Emma knows that her presence is dimming, Mary Margaret is bright.

But she can afford to be, can’t she? It’s only Emma’s life riding on this. If Emma falls to the wayside, then Mary Margaret’s life goes on the same as it did before, with even fewer complications.

Emma feels even grumpier at that thought.

“Would you like to walk around the gardens?” Mary Margaret inquires.

“No.”

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, her lips thinning in consternation.

Mary Margaret sighs, and says, “This is difficult.”

Emma looks away because yeah, she’s being difficult, but she just doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about the gardens or the aviary or the stables. Doesn’t care that there’s this beautiful manor-castle hybrid with 23 separate turrets before her. She just -

“For what it’s worth, I understand,” Mary Margaret offers.

Emma lifts an eyebrow. “Understand why this is difficult or just in general?”

Emma expects another sigh, but Mary Margaret surprises her with her earnest response of, “You’re trying, Emma, that’s all we can ask of you given the circumstances, and we shouldn’t even ask that of you... _given_ the circumstances.”

“So, what, you’re apologizing?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “Apologies won’t help, will they? The only thing I think that can would be making this as easy for you as possible.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Mary Margaret brushes some wayward hairs out of her face and says, “And I can do that by taking you on a tour of the gardens. The scent of orchids will make you feel better.”

Emma groans but it’s less weary than before.

“Lead the way.”

They turn towards the path, walking along the stones until it twists in two separate directions, and they’re about to take the left on the path to the gardens when footsteps sound by the right, followed by Killian’s appearance. His hands are fisted at his sides, which he releases the moment he looks up and notices them.

“Oh, Killian, hello,” Mary Margaret says. “This is great. I was just about to take Emma to the gardens and talk about the interview tomorrow, but it’ll be better if you’re with us.”

“Right,” Killian says, but there’s nothing right with the tight smile that he gives.

Emma’s not the only one struggling, it seems.

Mary Margaret’s eyebrows wander up and she says, “Just what were you doing at Regina’s apple orchard?”

“Cora was visiting. We had ourselves a nice little chat. She’s disappointed that she didn’t get to meet Emma, but alas she has some prior engagements to attend, which she’s already on her way to.”

“Alas,” Emma echoes.

She wishes that it would sound like a lie because then it wouldn’t be so confusing in her head - why would Cora want to meet Emma? Why would the mother of the half-sister Killian usurped want to meet Killian’s girlfriend? It doesn’t make any sense, and by the inclination of Killian’s head, she doubts it will for a while.

He lifts his head to smile at her, and the look isn’t right, but it eases something in her. She isn’t the only one struggling.

She doesn’t feel so alone.

“So about this interview?” he says, offering his hand to her.

She takes it.

-

Mary Margaret leaves them at the side entrance to the manor. Ruby’s already at the door, waiting for them, but Emma’s been tense beside him since their walk to the gardens and Killian himself hasn’t been much better.

He greets Ruby with a smile, but says, “We’re just going to retire for the night.”

“Did you eat? Regina’s having dinner in a few minutes if you want to join her -”

“Would we be able to have a private dinner up in…” - Emma looks to Killian - “Our rooms?”

Ruby looks at her, nodding vigorously, “Of course. I’ll have something brought up.” Both her eyebrows lift as she lies, “I’m sure Regina will understand.”

Regina will understand alright, that they’re hiding themselves away. It’ll be a victory to her, and given the way her mother dismissed him, it’s one she’s definitely won.

He screws his eyes shut for a moment and sighs and when he opens them, he looks to Emma only to find her staring up at him, a wrinkle in her brow.

Air whistles through his nose as he bites back a curse, hopes that she won’t ask but knows that it’ll be worse if she doesn’t because that’ll mean she understands like she did when she didn’t press about Gold.

“Show me the way then?” Emma asks.

He leads her through the fastest route to his rooms, bypassing the main hall entirely and taking the dustier back stairs. They meet a few people on the way, but they only nod at Killian and Emma.

She keeps mum the entire time, that is, until he opens the door to his rooms and says, “Welcome to my humble home.”

“Humble? You’re joking right?”

“I was,” he states.

He knows how it looks because he lived in a small house by the bay and it was _enough_ just to have his bedroom and his bathroom and now he has all _this._

And now nothing feels like enough.

(Because everything he tries fails and he falls further down, a maelstrom dragging everything down with him.)

He glances around the large, mostly open space as Emma takes apprehensive steps inside, just enough that he’s able to close the doors behind them with a quiet click. He turns the key in the lock, grateful at whoever left it for him. Will most likely. He was the one who stole it to begin with.

He stares at the bed, at the clean sheets and the mattress sized for a king. He wants to collapse atop it, and hates himself for it.

(The agreement is off the table; he can still have all this, but answers? Answers? There’s still so many questions.)

“Is this supposed to be _my_ room?” Emma says, shocked like the thought is just occurring to her.

Killian can only answer, “Yes, this is where we’ll be staying.”

“...the hell,” Emma murmurs. She turns to him. “Is this even allowed? We’re not married.”

He chuckles at that. “We’re not so archaic in Socaea. Besides, I think they already can guess that we share a bed. Your former apartment isn’t nearly big enough to boast two.”

“Just this room is big enough to boast at least three,” Emma says, tone caught between mocking and actual awe.

“God, I need to -” She catches herself and says, “Which door leads to the bathroom and which leads to the secret escape route out of the castle?”

“You’ve been reading too many stories, Swan,” Killian says.

“Not really, no,” she says. She glances away from him and towards the shelves on the wall, “But you?”

He points towards the door on the left. “That’s the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” she says. She shirks her jacket, tossing it across his bed, and Killian gives himself a moment to stare at how the bed seems that much bigger with the jacket on it. It’s more than enough space.

Far more than enough.

Still, he steps towards the chaise lounge and peels back the sheets on that. It’s been cleaned, too, which is good or else he’d be sneezing all night at the dust collecting on it. He thanks whoever had the foresight for that.

The bathroom door opens just in time for the knock on the door.

“Dinner,” a grumpy voice announces and Killian could almost laugh at the parallel to the morning. It’s soothing, the small gesture from the fates, that Leroy would be the first person at his door and the last.

“I appreciate this, Leroy,” Killian says as he answers the door.

Leroy glares up at him.

“Ruby thought you might like a friendly face.”

“And yours is truly the friendliest I know,” Killian remarks.

Leroy thrusts the tray into Killian’s waiting hands, hard enough to probably earn him a reprimand should Ruby have seen - or a cheering on should Ruby have seen on a different day.

Without so much as a wave, Leroy stomps away and Killian hefts the tray to himself, closing the door with the push of his shoulder.

“Guess he got here right after us,” Emma says.

“Mmm,” Killian agrees.

He walks past her to set their meal down on the table, two bowls of a thick soup and some bread and cheese on the side that Emma quickly tears into as soon as she sets down.

She moans around the bread and cheese and Killian watches her for a moment, thinking of last night’s grilled cheese - and other things, other, sweeter moans, before he digs into his own food. He’s not hungry enough that eating feels too much like a necessary activity as it does an enjoyable one.

Still, his enjoyment is cut by -

There are thoughts pressing against him, weighing down his shoulders until they’ve just about sunken as deep as his fuck up.

He peers at Emma and has to look away.

He doesn’t know how much time passes between the first spoonful and his last, but he clears the dishes away, tossing them in the small cleaning sink in the right room, the secret escape route - his mouth twitches up slightly; there’s no escape from here - before he returns to face his closet.

He expects Emma to disappear into the bathroom again. She’s found her suitcase and her night clothes within it, so he _expects_ her to leave, but she stands there, staring at him instead as he reaches for the tie at his neck.

His fingers fumble over the material, his prosthetic feeling loose and unwieldy despite knowing it’s all in his head.

“You’re playing the strong, silent type really well,” Emma says.

“Am I? That almost sounds like a compliment, Swan.” He looks at her from beneath his lashes and says, “Or perhaps you’re concerned about me?”

She doesn’t look amused. In fact, she leans back, arms crossing over her chest. “Is this another one of those secrets that you’re keeping to protect me?”

“What if I said my motives were entirely selfish?” he says.

“I’d call bullshit,” Emma says.

He freezes at that with his tie still around his neck and turns to face her. She walks up to him and reaches for his hands. Pushing them aside, she keeps staring at him as she loosens his tie for him, fingers shaking just slightly enough that he can pretend he doesn’t feel it.

He lifts a brow in question and she says simply, “You seemed to be struggling.”

Her hands trembled as she touched him.

He’s not the only one.

“Thank you,” he says, truly grateful.

He stares down at her. She’s about two inches shorter him than she was before, the perfect height for him to press a kiss to her temple like he’s been doing all day.

But he can’t now. Kisses in front of others are fine. This, he knows, would be asking too much, for the comfort of her touch.

She doesn’t move out of his space for a moment so he continues to stare down at her, contemplating the taste of her lips. It’s an easier thought to focus on than anything else he has to consider tonight.

Until it isn’t.

Until she’s stepping out of his space and commenting, “I like to sleep on the right side, so you’re going to have to take the left.”

“The left?” She looks towards the bed significantly and he says, “The bed’s yours,” because the thought of seeking comfort in her touch is too hard.

“It’s your bed,” she points out.

“It’s yours, too, now.”

“Too implies _two_ ,” she says.

He smiles. “I’ll take the chair tonight.” She starts to protest but he just says, “You’re not going to change my mind.”

“Stubborn,” she remarks.

He simply smiles at her again before he turns away, going for the buttons of his shirt. It’s easier now, to slip the buttons out of their holes when she’s padding quietly across the floor. He hears a rustle and he doesn’t turn around, waits until he hears the bed dip before he looks at her. She has her back turned to him which is definitely a sight he doesn’t need - a different kind of need, at least.

Killian swallows and turns away.

“Goodnight,” she says, like it’s a question.

Simply put, it is.

“Goodnight,” he replies, like it’s a hope.

Simply put?

It is.

-

She wakes up to a flurry of a movement that isn’t her own groggy form, but Killian bouncing from foot to foot near the bathroom door, shirt half unbuttoned and one sleeve rolled up to his elbow.

“It’s early?” she murmurs.

He looks to her and says quietly, “Yes, it is, but I wanted to give you some more time to sleep while I got ready. Sorry to wake you, Swan.”

“‘S okay,” she slurs tiredly, rubbing at her eyes.

“Breakfast should be up in twenty if you want to shower,” he says.

“If I want,” she huffs, not quite a laugh.

Climbing out of bed, she goes for her one of the boxes only to notice the deep blue dress strewn across what she has dubbed as Killian’s side of the bed even though he refused to sleep in it.

She thinks he was going for the gentlemanly route but she can’t be sure. The way he looked at it spoke of a different motion entirely.

Killian chuckles, eyes on her, and says, “Interview wear courtesy of Mary Margaret. Said it should be the proper size.”

“It will be. While you were out on the plane, Sleeping Beauty, Mary Margaret took my measurements,” Emma says.

“And you couldn’t say no?” Killian says.

“Not when she pulled out the tape measure - did she seriously go shopping for me? She can’t do that.”

“There are certainly more outfits where that came from, yes. Mary Margaret has a very heavy hand when it comes to micro-managing the Royal lifestyle,” Killian expounds.

“Noted,” Emma says.

She digs through her boxes for some underwear - a bra would be useless with this dress, but at least the fabric is thick enough to hide any reactions to the cold already seeping into the room - and grabs the dress off the bed to move past Killian and into the still warm bathroom.

She showers efficiently this time, no lingering except for a moment to consider her change in mood and how she woke up in this big bed to Killian’s half-dressed form. It’s wasn’t a bad sight. All things considered, she could certainly do worse.

She’s trying to think so because the alternative is what she spent all yesterday doing afternoon and it wasn’t working for her at all. Moping doesn’t work for her; she needs to be active about her fucked up situation. Fight or flight or both, she doesn’t really leave room for lying around in that big, empty bed, struggling to sleep because he obviously isn’t either.

She’s dressed and ready for a quick bite only to come out to the small table they shared dinner over yesterday covered in a wealth of food - wealth being the obvious reason behind all this.

“Modesty is in short supply where food is concerned here,” Killian says.

“I didn’t expect any different.”

She shrugs and grabs for an apple, munching on it thoughtfully as she marches over to the bed and slips into her pumps.

“I know I was moody yesterday,” Emma admits as she joins him back at the table.

“I was no better,” Killian says.

“But this interview needs to go smoothly.”

“It will,” Killian assures her, and she sort of feels that way, assured when he reaches over and grabs for an apple as well. He avoids the red ones entirely, picking through the bowl for the sole green one in the bunch.

“Not a fan of red apples?” Emma probes.

“Honeycrisp tastes sour in my mouth.”

“Says the man eating the granny smith.”

“I didn’t say why it tastes sour.” He points to the honey crisp and says, “It’s one of Regina’s.”

“That’s rather childish of you,” Emma points out.

“Suppose it’s the rivalry we never got to indulge in as children coming out to play,” Killian says.

His smile is dark, his humor bitter.

Emma reaches for his apple and sneaks it right out of his hand. Taking a bite, she says while chewing, “That _is_ good.” She hands it back over to him, and he stares at the bite before his eyes raise to hers, and he stares at her intently as he takes one himself, right over her own.

The thought occurs to her, as she’s watching him chew, that sharing is a simpler option for them so she tells him, “You can’t sleep on the couch tonight.”

“Was your sleep lonely?” Killian says, a pout to his lips and a flutter to his eyes that only serves to cement Emma’s argument.

She rolls her eyes and says, “No, but it’s just being stupid to sleep on that thing when one, you’re bigger than me, and two, the bed is bigger than the both of us combined.”

Killian opens his mouth, but instead of arguing, he stuffs a spoonful of oatmeal in it instead.

“Your bed is as ridiculous as you are, anyway. There’s gold and rubies on the headboard,” Emma scoffs.

Killian looks towards the bed and then turns his gaze away as he simply answers, “It’s an heirloom, Swan, and I didn’t have a choice.”

Emma stares at him as he walks past, away from her and the bed and says, “No choice in bed sets? Really?”

“All the future kings of Socaea have slept in the same one since 1622,” he replies.

The past two days have been all, “I slept with a prince and it’s completely fucked me over,” for her, but it never really occurred to her that being said prince might be just as hard on him as it is on her. To not be able to choose your own bed, Emma _knows_ that feeling.

She looks at him carefully and says, “Please, just don’t tell me your great-great-great grandfather died in this bed.”

Killian chuckles, lifting his eyes from his bowl, a curl to his lips that isn’t as humored as it’s been but isn’t as dark as it was only moments before. “We changed the mattress, so there’s no need to worry, love.”

The rest of the meal, they spend watching each other, alternatively stealing food from the other’s plate and it’s childish and stupid but it makes her feel better about facing the day, so much so that not even Leroy’s grumpy manner when he knocks on the door to remind them to get their asses down the stairs makes her feel bad.

What does is walking down the long staircase for the first time and actually getting a true measure of the manor. It’s every bit as big as Mary Margaret described, wide and open.

Not many places to hide.

“The car’s out front. I trust you’re feeling up to this?” Mary Margaret says when they’ve descended.

“I am,” Emma says.

“Good,” Killian says behind her. “I am too.”

They move to the car and Emma half-wonders why Regina isn’t up to see them off. It seems like a thing she would do, but then she notices Mary Margaret’s stumbling step and sees the problem just as they reach the car.

The guard standing ready to open the door isn’t Ruby.

“Claude, good morning,” Mary Margaret says.

Killian merely stares at him and Emma smiles as he looks between the three of them, trying for something that isn’t distrust and (probably) failing.

Regina doesn’t need to leave them with scathing words before their arrival to throw them off their game. This is clever - clever and manipulative, and Emma kind of hates her for it.

Good on herself, she supposes, to return Regina’s sentiments.

She clutches at the sleeves of her leather jacket and says, “We’re going to be late.”

“You’re right,” Mary Margaret says.

Claude opens the door as they approach and Mary Margaret climbs in first, followed by Emma and Killian at the last. The door slams shut, hard enough to make the limo shake and Emma winces just slightly.

“It’s too early to be that hostile,” she grits out just before he re-enters the car.

And yet, Claude drives like a maniac, worthy of rivaling some of the worst taxi experiences Emma’s had - and one of her bonds _was_ a taxi driver at the time that she was hauling his ass in.

Mary Margaret stays silent the whole time, looking entirely too carsick for Emma to be comfortable enough to push conversation. Not that she really wants to - except to ask about the dress, and even that is a question she can answer herself.

Presenting Emma Swan, not a criminal mastermind but a calm, downright conservative presence. That is, until you pull up her criminal record, the one that was sealed of course because nothing stays quiet forever.

Except -

The car comes to a short stop. Killian doesn’t wait for Claude to open the door, opening it himself and offering both her and Mary Margaret a hand out of it.

She touches his shoulder in thanks and he smiles at her, says softly, “You’re very welcome, my dear.”

Mary Margaret comes up beside her, hand to her mouth, but after a moment, she pulls it back to question, “Is there anything you want to discuss before we enter the building?”

“I don’t need last minute jitters, so thanks but I’m good,” Emma says.

-

The interview gets off to an awkward start mainly because of Sidney, while Emma and Killian are in makeup - an act that leaves her distinctly uncomfortable, not because of “Never have I felt so much like a star!” but because the makeup artist insists that her eyebrows are too arched and her hair too yellow, and she wants to throttle him just about as much as she wants to throttle Sidney, who spends the hour before hiding from them. He doesn’t appear until a few minutes before broadcast, after Emma and Killian have already settled into their seats. At least they don’t have to go through the whole talk show, walk down, and wave at the crowd.

At least there _isn’t_ a crowd. Not in this part of the studio.

Killian clutches for her hand as Sidney greets them.

“Emma, you look lovely. Prince Killian, I’m glad you two could make it.”

“But are we?” Killian asks.

Sidney doesn’t get the chance to answer because the curtain rises, metaphorically, and they’re on candid camera. Emma feels a bit wooden in her stance, but Killian’s hand in hers is cold, but comforting.

“First of all, thank you for being a part of our broadcast,” Sidney says. “We know that this isn’t under the best of circumstances that we would’ve liked to have extended our invitation, but -”

Emma doesn’t let him finish, a nervousness driving her to cut in with, “It’s fine.”

Sidney quirks an eyebrow, his eyes going wide and warning.

Emma’s already through with it - but she quiets for the rest of his monologue, allows Killian to introduce her, laughs as he explains how they met and interjects at all the right times until Sidney’s voice goes serious and he says, “We wanted to give you the chance to explain what really happened that evening.”

She takes it upon herself to answer this one, just because Sidney sweats when she opens her mouth.

“It’s as Killian said, and I’m sure you’ve heard. He had a bit too much to drink and tripped over himself.” Emma can’t fake sweet to save her life - the last time she tried she ended up slamming the guy’s head into the wheel of his car - so she says it simply, “You were there, you should know.”

“I should, right,” Sidney says.

If he could be tugging at the tie around his neck, he probably would, but how would that look on a live broadcast?

Probably no worse than he already looks when she laughs and says, “And you helped me carry him to the car. I’m still unsure what would’ve given you the impression that I was _kidnapping_ him, but I understand, I guess. He’s a prince. I’m a bouncer. We don’t really mix, right?”

Killian chuckles and places his hand atop hers, “I think we mix rather well.”

It should sound dirty and if he were wearing his usual smile, it would, but this one is softer, less seductive intent than it is genuine.

“I think so, too,” Emma admits.

Awkward start be damned, they’re doing pretty well so far.

It continues that way - Killian is easy to play off of and it feels almost as if they were alone in her apartment again, the back and forth give and take more than easy, even; it’s just natural. She almost forgets Sidney’s there until he speaks and she feels a flare of resentment that she has to push down in order to answer.

The second to last question makes it harder than the others.

“Now, we know this may be very personal for you, Emma, and if it makes you uncomfortable, you do not have to answer, but as it’s been touched on in so many of the papers, we’d like to know how you reconcile your criminal past with the person that you are now?”

Score for Sidney, he actually makes it sound like he isn’t the one who published her “criminal past” in his column.

Killian squeezes her hand and she says, “You’re right. I’m not the same girl with that same poor judgement.”

Killian jumps in, “No, I’m the one blessed with the poor judgement, given the circumstances.”

“No more rum for you, then?” Sidney offers with a brilliant, toothy white grin for the cameras.

Killian offers one in return, and says, “I can make no promises.”

Emma knows she’s supposed to chuckle here, but she turns to him and says, “Sure you can.”

Killian sighs. “To you, of course. I won’t touch the drink.”

“Good. Let’s not have a repeat of my having to carry you. You’re not that light.”

“Speaking of, how did you manage that? You must be quite strong, Emma?” Sidney asks.

“I work out. I like a good morning jog, some yoga, going to the gym pretty regularly. I like to keep active. Sitting still makes me,” she makes a shuddering motion with her shoulders.

Killian supplies, “Antsy. Emma has too much energy to be contained. Lucky for us she puts it towards the best of endeavors, keeping the both of us on our toes.”

“And what other endeavors shall you be pursuing while you're in Socaea? Surely you won't simply be hanging around Calden Manor?”

Emma laughs at that because surely she won't swing at him while the cameras are rolling.

“I’ll find something. I always do.”

“You truly do. We all hope that you enjoy your stay in Socaea, Emma.”

Sidney turns to the camera, and says, “When we come back, a talk with the interior designer for Princess Anna's engagement party. Stick around, ladies, gentlemen, and all you out there watching, you won't want to miss this.”

Emma smiles into the camera, not sure whether to wave, settles for holding Killian's hand a bit tighter. The prosthetic is warm from her touch.

“Am I pulling too hard,” she asks when Sidney announces, “And you’re free!”

“Not at all,” Killian says to get quietly. To Sidney, he grins and says, “Are we now?

Sidney’s look is nervous as he stares between the both of them and says, “Better question: am I?”

Emma can only smile at that.

-

She’s not sure how the day passes so quickly when she spends most of it waiting around - for Killian and Mary Margaret to finish arrangements with the studio. For Ruby to rotate in to replace Claude when Regina calls him back to the manor. For this person and that person - for lunch and dinner and finally, finally _sleep_.

Killian hovers by the bed again, turned away from her as she changes, and she respects that he’s being a gentleman, but also -

He’s seen every inch of her already, left marks on most the places she keeps most hidden, her dainty sensibilities are hardly in danger.

Still, he does get into the bed beside her, far too close for the wide swath of space offered by it, so perhaps he isn’t too worried about her dainty sensibilities after all.

“I have a question,” Emma says after a moment of silence between them.

“Worried about the ghosts of ancestors past?” Killian teases.

“That’s not funny,” Emma says and kicks at him.

Her toes brush his ankles and the warmth settles in almost too quickly. He’s a mass of heat and her cold feet react on their own, touching him just a beat too long.

“Stealing my warmth now, are we?” he asks.

She pulls back, feeling her face warm when it should be going to her toes instead and rolls to face him.

“I’m not stealing anything. I was trying to kick you,” Emma says, doesn’t know why she’s even bothering with the explanation, it’s stupid, she’s being stupid - and she didn’t even get out her question.

Doesn’t really remember it.

Killian’s smiling, the corners of his mouth twitching up and up until he grins ever wider, and suggests, “Perhaps you’d have better luck with longer contact?”

“I’m not cuddling with you. Go to sleep,” Emma says.

“It was merely a suggestion.”

Emma harrumphs and turns away again, rolling onto her side. Tiredly, she curls in on herself, only curling tighter when his hand touches her shoulder, flinching away instinctively.

“Sorry,” he apologizes when she glares at him. He offers a small smile and says, “We did well today, didn’t we?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, I think we did.”

She nods off at that, only to awaken slightly, hours later, there’s light in the room, just a little and Killian’s breathing is less than steady beside her. She snuggles closer.

Her toes are so cold.

She tucks her feet beneath him to a quiet, “There’s a good girl,” and she’d slide them away only she’s so tired and he’s so warm, and Emma’s drifting already, too far gone to properly disentangle them.

His arm comes up around her and Emma sighs into the embrace, falling out again to another quiet, “Aye, there’s a good girl. Sweet dreams, love.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say about the delay except life and writer's block happens and I hope this chapter will tide you over to the next, which hopefully *fingers crossed* will be next Tuesday. I really hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos!

Emma sighs awake, feeling wetness at the corner of her mouth and a sound croaking in the back of her throat. She was snoring _and_ drooling. An attractive way to wake up for sure, but Killian doesn’t seem to be aware of it even though he’s pressed up so close that the sound should’ve awoken him.

With both of them scrunched together on the center of the bed, their legs are impossibly tangled.

Emma starts the waking process by drawing her still sleeping foot out from underneath him. Pins and needles meet the motion, and she groans deliberately. Killian sleeps on, his breathing still steady, his chest rising and falling comfortably. His arm's still pressed up around her, and Emma lifts it up and off her side.

That’s what wakes him, when her hand meets his wrist and he jerks up as if she’s shocked him.

“It’s alright,” she says because he’s looking at her with wide, almost frightened eyes and she’s definitely not the most terrifying sight he could be waking up to. She understands though as she keeps her hand on his wrist where the prosthetic would normally be.

Eventually he sighs, relaxing, and says, “You alright, Swan? Sorry to -” He gently tugs and Emma lets go, allowing him to wave his stumped wrist in deprecation of himself.

“Actually” - He startles slightly at her response, head lifting quizzically - “I have a question.”

“About this?”

He wiggles his eyebrows as his gaze roves over the lack of space between him and her. She stares at him, unsurprised at this point by his deflecting response.

“No.”

His face falls, brow wrinkling into a more serious expression. “That ‘no’ sounds foreboding.”

“What now?” Emma asks.

It was her question last night, before she allowed herself to be distracted from it by their casual conversation. That brief reprieve was a momentary lapse in judgement, letting him curl up around her last night, but at least it was a comfortable one and, now, in the light of morning filtering in through the high windows, the reprieve is up and it’s back to reality.

The reality she isn’t so sure about at the moment.

At least Killian gets it because he nods and lifts himself up into a seated position while he replies, “I’m not sure what Mary Margaret has planned for you today. I’m not even sure what she has planned for me today. So, I suppose it’ll be a surprise for the both of us.”

He grins and offers his hand to her to help her sit up beside him. She takes it, tingles in her palm indicating that she isn’t fully awake yet, tingles in her fingertips like electricity and nothing like the sharp pangs of sleep.

She looks away for a second.

(A brief reprieve.)

“But that’s not exactly what you’re asking. Now? Now we go about as we would had you not been introduced the way you were. The scandal has had its day, now comes the glitz and glamour instead.”

“Glitz and glamour?”

Killian’s mouth twists up in his own private joke as he says, “The princess, Aurora, is arriving in three days.”

Emma wants in on the joke and, frowning slightly, she asks, “Is this something I should worry about?”

“Aurora?” He frowns, too. “Not really except…”

“Except?”

“Her interaction with the world outside of the royal lifestyle has been fairly limited. I’m afraid you’ll be a bit of a culture shock to her.”

“Are you serious?” Emma says.

He ducks his head, sharing a secret smile with her, and says, “Deathly so.”

She shakes her head at his smile, at his good humor. Combing her hair back and out of her face, she looks down at her knees, bent beneath the dark sheets. The warmth of sharing the space with him is starting to wear off. She should probably invest in some pajama pants while here because her shorts just aren’t cutting it, and she can’t just siphon off his heat. Last night was a - “mistake” would be too strong a word, but “not smart” basically covers all her bases.

Shirking the sheets, she says, “What time is it even?”

“Past decent breakfast most likely, but we can steal away into the kitchens. No one will mind.”

“Yes because admitting that you mind when your boss imposes on you is beneficial to keeping your job,” Emma says.

It’s a little more critical than she means to be, but _he_ doesn’t seem to mind. Killian stretches his arms over his head and yawns. Emma watches for a moment before she realizes how it looks - and then she continues to watch because looking away would be admitting that she’s remembering how she ran her hands over his chest as he rocked beneath her. It doesn’t seem she has to admit it, though, because Killian eyes her with a smirk.

Emma rolls her eyes, and this time she actually does turn away.

A knock draws her eyes to the door and she gets up out of the bed before he can. The carpets are a blessing because it’s cold as hell; she’d think they could afford some decent heating, but maybe it’s out. Or it’s not yet cold enough in their view to turn it on.

Emma really didn’t bring that much decent winter clothing with her.

She swings open the door to find Mary Margaret standing there. She gapes at Emma for a moment, and Emma hears Killian move from the bed, too, remarking all too loudly, “Your legs must be cold.”

“They are,” Emma shoots back. She nods at Mary Margaret and says, “I’m going to need some winter clothes -” Mary Margaret starts but Emma finishes - “Of my own choosing.”

She smiles at her, after that, to cut the sharpness of her request. After a beat, Mary Margaret sighs and says, “Sure. We can do that over lunch.”

“Lunch?” Emma asks. She turns her head accusingly towards Killian even though the logical part of her knows it’s not his fault that she slept so deeply beside him because the stubborn part of her refuses to acknowledge any of the implications of her restful sleep.

“You two slept in rather late,” Mary Margaret comments, her tone too even not to make Killian chuckle as he moves about the room. Emma rolls her eyes while Mary Margaret completely ignores him and says, “Which is understandable. Conversations with Sidney can be...taxing.”

“Exhausting,” Emma agrees.

“But, you’ll be happy to know, it went well. I expect this to blow over soon.”

“That’s what Killian said,” Emma reflects.

Mary Margaret nods. “So all we have to worry about for now is preparing you for Aurora’s arrival.”

“He also mentioned that.”

“She’s a sweet girl. You’ll like her.”

Emma is pretty sure her and sweet don’t mix, never been called it herself, not that she can remember beyond vague, blurry things that make her rub at her eyes to try to clear the vision - but she doesn’t say any of that, just struggles out a smile and says, “I guess I’ll just hop in the shower and then we can do...whatever you need me to do.”

“You can find your way down to the dining hall by yourself?”

“I don’t need GPS for that, do I?”

Killian makes a noise behind her that goes beyond “suspiciously like a laugh” and into straight snickering. Emma smiles slightly, as Mary Margaret looks over her shoulder to glare at Killian.  Apparently ignoring him only lasts so long before Mary Margaret ends up stumbling over her words in annoyance.

“No, you - You don’t. I’m leaving, and I’ll see you in the dining hall. Killian, you can join us.”

She says the last part grudgingly, nods at Emma before she turns and stalks off down the hall. Emma closes the door behind her and comments, “You’re going to make her hate me.”

Killian balks at that, an audible scoffing as he says, “Not a chance.” With a grin and wink - an attempted wink at least, but more of a stuttered blink - he says, “She likes me after all.”

Emma nods, “You have a point there.”

He waves off her comment and says, “You can shower first.” He seems to get distracted after that, and Emma notices the phone in his hands, the light blinking at the front reminding her of all the things he isn’t telling her.

She stares at that light with a growing grimace, turns away before he can notice.

-

She meets Mary Margaret at the dining hall, leaving Killian behind. It’s an easy path to take, down the stairs and to the right. The left’s doors are all open and those little rooms are not fit for dining, and besides she can smell something sweet wafting from the right.

It doesn’t catch her in its magic, this grand hall, the scent of food escaping the kitchens. It only makes her stomach growl.

Mary Margaret’s waiting by the doors as Emma enters and she immediately leads her down a flight of stairs on the right, following the scent of food.

“I guess we’re eating on the go?”

“Yeah, sorry. Do you mind if we shoot by the stables? We have a new horse master and I wanted to welcome him.”

Emma slips into the jacket she has slung over her arms; she doesn’t mind.

“In fact, that’s an excellent idea,” she says.

Mary Margaret looks at her in surprise. “Really?”

Mary Margaret is so guileless that Emma almost feels bad for this, but she has too much riding on her ability to pretend. She needs practice and if she uses this new horse master to pretend with, there’s no harm in that.

Only if it fails.

Emma falters, just a little, but gathers herself quickly. She isn’t good at hoping for the best, what she’s good at is turning shit situations into less shit. She can do that with them, she thinks, she just needs this: Mary Margaret’s swift nod and even swifter steps leading them through the kitchen. Emma grabs an apple, granny smith, and two of the soft, gooey oatmeal bars cooling on a serving platter on the counter.

A girl, no more than eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most, nearly bumps into Emma as she says, “Mary Margaret, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“It’s okay, Ashley. Emma and I were just going to the stables.”

“Emma?”

The girl turns to her and her eyes widen upon first sight. Well, Emma at least doesn’t need to worry about remaining anonymous to the staff. Her interview probably did a good job of that one. The idea of them watching her interview makes her queasier than the idea of them seeing her drag Killian into the cab, but she deals, and in between a bite of her oatmeal bar, she says, “Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Ashley.”

The girl looks from Emma to Mary Margaret before giving Emma a nervous smile, “Nice to meet you, too.” Ashley jerks as a timer goes off and says, “Oh, but I need to…!”

Ashley runs.

Mary Margaret starts to guide Emma away, but Emma steps backwards, grabs a third oatmeal bar because the blueberry one is already mostly gone and strawberry’s about to take a hit, might as well go with the raspberry one, too.

“They’re good, aren’t they?”

Emma nods in lieu of speaking and blasting Mary Margaret in crumbs. As they walk, Emma notes her surroundings with a more careful eye than she did when Mary Margaret was giving her the tour. They’re walking past the orchard, more north, she guesses, to a gated pen and stables.

“He must be inside with the horses,” Mary Margaret comments as they approach.

Her guess is correct because a moment later, a man exits the stables and Mary Margaret stumbles beside her, an “Oh shit,” leaving her mouth that Emma would _never_ have expected of her so soon.

So much for two-days-of-knowing-a-woman impressions.

It seems Emma doesn’t have to be good at pretend at all in this situation because Mary Margaret is failing enough for the both of them in her stilted walk and frozen expression.

“You know him,” Emma gathers.

“We’ve met,” Mary Margaret says.

Emma is about to offer that they don’t have to meet again, only the man looks up from whatever’s in his hands and notices them, his mouth going slack-jawed for a second as he stares in their direction. Emma’s pretty grateful for his focused gaze not being on her, but it isn’t helpful to getting her day rolling and this...pretending thing going, so she pushes Mary Margaret slightly and breaks their held gazes with a wave and a shouted, “Hello, you must be…”

“Charming,” Mary Margaret breathes out beside her, just quietly enough that he could only hear the words if he were reading them off her lips instead.

Which he might be, considering how his mouth quirks up in a smile and his eyes follow Mary Margaret’s lips.

Emma leaves Mary Margaret behind to gather herself and approaches David, who wipes his hands on the front of his pants before offering his to her. He makes a valiant attempt to look at her, but he seemingly didn’t expect to see Mary Margaret as much as she seemingly didn’t expect to see him because his eyes are slightly wide and his gaze is searching just past Emma’s shoulder where Mary Margaret must be still standing.

Emma shakes David’s hand and this draws his full attention.

“You have a strong grip.”

“Thank you?” Emma ventures.

David laughs, no doubt at the question in her voice, saying, “That was a compliment, I swear.”

“I believe you,” Emma assures him.

“I’m glad to hear that one.”

He’s not exactly subtle when he glances over in Mary Margaret’s direction when she finally steps up behind Emma.

“Hello, Mary Margaret,” he greets.

“Hello, David.”

It’s the single most awkward ‘Hello’ Emma’s ever had to endure and she blurts out, “So, horse master, bird master, is this some kind of S&M thing that the Socaean...whoever names these positions...has going on?”

If she were trying to clear the awkwardness from the air (she was), this would’ve made the worst attempt at it (it does) because Mary Margaret chokes on a cough and David’s eyes go wide, his cheeks clenching from obviously trying to hold back laughter.

“I don’t think that’s what Mary Margaret intended,” David says.

Emma turns slightly to catch Mary Margaret’s reddened face and says, “You named them, right. Yeah, I guess you didn’t intend that.”

“I’m going to...change the names of the positions then,” Mary Margaret says, adding another layer of awkward when their minds all go to the same thing given David’s cough and Mary Margaret’s inability to meet anyone’s eyes.

“This is getting off to a...start,” Emma says. “I’m Emma Swan. Nice to meet you, David, sorry for…” She waves her hand. “Yeah.”

David chuckles and says, “It’s not the worst start I’ve ever had.”

He looks at Mary Margaret and Emma doesn’t miss the significance. She’s curious as to the story behind that, but Mary Margaret is eager to shut down that curiosity.

She says, “No doubt. I’m sure you’ve had much worse.” All business, Mary Margaret sharpens, straightens, and stares at David directly when she says, “I’m glad to have you on our team here at the manor. We needed all the help we can get and I trust that you can provide it. The horses need a -”

“I know what the horses need, Mary Margaret,” David says, his voice just a touch annoyed.

Mary Margaret blinks. “Right. That’s your job. And mine, mine, I need to be getting back to it. Emma, if you’ll follow me…”

“Wait!”

All their heads turn to the newcomer. Killian’s smile alights as he approaches them in his dark jacket, black leather to match Emma’s red. He reaches their sides at a jog, hand outstretched.

“Dave, it’s great to have you back.”

“Great to be back,” David says, shaking Killian’s hand.

Mary Margaret taps Emma on the arm and Emma turns quickly enough to catch the stiffness in her expression before she says, “Did you want to -”

Killian cuts her off, whirling Emma back around when he questions, “I don’t think I ever asked, love, but have you ever ridden?”

“What? A horse?”

Emma snorts at that.

If she ever even dreamed of riding a horse (she didn’t, not really, not for very long), it definitely wasn’t something that ever left dreams.

She never even got out to the “country” until she was riding across it in the passenger seat of her little bug. And then the driver’s side, and then she’d only drove through the country to get out of Arizona and back to the city.

“That’s great. David’s an excellent tutor,” Killian says. “And -”

“Don’t say it,” Emma says.

Killian winks - an attempt at it that makes Emma bite back on laughter - and says, “I’m pretty brilliant at it, too.”

“I’ll go get her ready,” David says.

Emma’s about to protest but she was wrong about Mary Margaret being guileless because there’s a sneakiness to how she leaves Emma to it, to David’s helpful hands and Killian’s eager smile.

Emma groans at David’s back, but he merely turns and says, “You have the look of a natural.”

David has a nice smile. Not distracting the way Killian’s gleaming one is, but warm and welcoming. Emma would regret making him frown, probably - at least, that’s why she opts to stay instead of running off in search of Mary Margaret instead. That and the fact that racing away from Killian’s company wouldn’t look right. That and -

Killian’s already pouting.

“I really don’t want to do this,” she points out, still.

“I know that you’re thinking this a pointless activity,” Killian says.

He circles around until his back is to the stables where Emma can hear a horse whinny. A whinnying horse, not exactly a phrase she’s ever been able to say applied to her life.

“You’re right.”

“We have cars,” he mimics her voice, poorly. She’s not the only one bad at impressions, not the only one who takes humor in it because his smile is fairly wide while he says, “Why deign to learn how to ride this medieval monstrosity?”

“Never would I have called a horse ‘a medieval monstrosity,’” Emma says.

He ignores her.

“But your car is still a few days away, and since you were eager about the secret escape routes out of the manor, I figured that you’d consider this as one of your possible escape methods, should you need one.”

She’s torn between asking whether she will need one, but instead says, “Or I could just use any of the cars you have here.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You know how to hotwire a car?”

“I know how to hotwire _my_ car,” Emma says. She smiles. “And I know how to steal keys off an unwitting guard.”

Killian ‘ah’s. “All my guards are witting. Don’t let them tell you differently.”

“Regina’s guards?” Emma asks.

Killian laughs. “Claude got to you, didn’t he?”

“His driving did,” Emma says. She smiles again, offering, “I would be doing everyone a favor by taking the keys out of his hands.”

“You have my blessing,” Killian says.

He smiles back at her, and David shouts over to them, just as he’s reaching out to touch her - they’re not that far apart, Emma realizes, close enough to look quite intimate.

Remembering why she came out here in the first place, Emma leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek, and says, “Thanks for the blessing,” as she pulls back.

He stares at her, expression going unrecognizable by any words Emma’s used yet to describe it.

“You’re welcome,” he says, softly.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Sunshine’s ready,” David says.

Emma keeps her eyes on Killian as she says, “Not interrupting.” Killian nods, and that’s when Emma turns to David and starts off towards him, saying, “But if I said I changed my mind?”

“Can’t change your mind now, Swan,” Killian says, following right at Emma’s heels.

David goes back into the stables and slowly leads a horse out. Emma gets the name after that, because she has a yellow coat with darker spots across it - sunspots, even. She stops just short of touching distance while Killian keeps going towards the horse, brushing his hand over her nose. He nods as David hands him the reins and in a move that Emma can only describe as “getting on the horse,” he settles himself atop her.

“I think it’ll make you more comfortable if you ride with someone else first. Get used to having her beneath you.”

“Get used to? I’m doing this more than once?”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Come a little closer, she won’t bite.”

Sunshine snorts and Emma sees the huge teeth.

Yeah, right.

Emma steps forward though and carefully reaches out her hand to avoid her teeth. She’s going to touch the horse’s nose, but it snorts again, backing up slightly with Killian beneath it. He calms her quickly, but Emma steps back.

“Yeah, she sounds like she wants to bite,” Emma says.

Killian groans.

“Come on, Swan, stop second-guessing yourself. Climb up and join me,” he says with a tired swing of his head.

Emma vacillates again.

“Why don’t I just watch you?” Emma suggests.

“Don’t you trust me?”

He pouts. He has the goddamn nerve to pout when she can’t say anything against that given David watching them quietly in the background.

Still, it isn’t lying when Emma says, “I do.” The only lie there is that her trusting him translates to her trusting herself atop a horse.

She sighs and reaches out again for Sunshine’s nose. The horse lets her this time, no snorting, no baring of teeth, just a gentle nudge forward beneath Emma’s hand. Emma risks looking away from her eyes to Killian’s as he smiles down at her.

Fine, she’ll get on the horse.

He reaches out his hand and Emma lets him help her up behind him. The horse is warm and the saddle is super solid, enough that Emma knows her ass is going to be uncomfortable if they spend too much time like this. But it’s fine enough for the moment. It’s fine that Sunshine’s moving beneath her, just fine.

“Alright, Sunshine, not too fast,” Killian murmurs. To Emma he says, “Just put your arms around me, love, and I’ll take you on a walk around the grounds.”

“I’ll see you guys in a bit, then,” David says, reminding them of his presence.

Not that Emma forgot. But he seems to think they have, a smile on his face like he can see something shared between them.

Emma smiles back at him and then presses closer to Killian as he starts to push the horse forward, away from the safety of _not_ moving to moving beneath her. It’s not the worst feeling, not bad at all, but it’s uncomfortable.

She squeezes him a little tighter and he says, “Just a walk.”

“Right,” she nods, her nose brushing against his back. She inhales the leather, not exactly a smell she enjoys, but it’s cloaked in some kind of cologne, a soft smell that Emma _can_ enjoy.

( _Has_ enjoyed.)

“It’s working,” Killian says.

“What’s working?”

“David...he had that look on his face.”

“Oh, you mean the ‘they’re definitely in love,’ look,” Emma says.

Killian chuckles. “That would be the one.”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s good that it’s working.”

“Glad to hear the interview worked as well,” Killian says.

Emma nods into his back, but doesn’t say anything more. She’s starting to drift, the way she did last night when she was too asleep to move away from him, too awake not to notice how he pulled her into his space, too -

“This a good pace?” Killian asks.

“We could…” Emma thinks about it a moment. “We could go faster?”

He straightens a bit, and Emma holds him tighter as he does something with the reins to egg the horse forward at a faster pace. The wind racing against her skin feels good, better than good even. It feels pretty damn great and she pushes against him and he leans forward, the horse going that much faster.

The bump of the horse beneath her is strange, still, but she welcomes it as her thoughts are beat out by the sound of its hooves hitting grass and dirt. She looks about her, realizes they’re moving around the apple orchard as she passes a pavilion and dozens upon dozens of trees of almost identical red apples. The green apples they ate yesterday morning must’ve been bought from somewhere else because there’s not a hint of green in the unchanging field.

“Honeycrisp?” Emma asks.

Killian doesn’t hear her. Instead he takes them back towards the manor, towards the gardens that he skirts around, edging closer to the gate. Emma understands. Mary Margaret would probably have a field day on his face if he trampled the flowers.

They move ever faster - a ‘hiyah’ leaving his mouth that Emma thought was reserved for movies - and her head spins a bit. She finds herself laughing as she pulls herself so close to him that she can’t see anymore, can only smell the world around them through the leather and the spice of his cologne.

She only really comes back down when they slow. Emma pants against his back, loosening her grip a tad.

“You alright, Swan?” he says, twisting slightly as she draws back up.

“I’m fine...I think.”

“Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?”

Emma meets his eyes and says, “Yeah.”

He smiles brightly, his smile gleaming and all kinds of distracting, and Emma shakes her head to clear the shine from her eyes. “It’s an escape method to consider, anyway.”

“Anyway,” he echoes.

His smile fades and he turns away from her. Killian looks up into the afternoon sun, and says, “We should be getting back. I think Mary Margaret really did have some things to discuss with me about Aurora’s visit. Did you want to join us?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Emma says.

“Does it really?”

He’s sincere in his question, so Emma actually gives it thought. Sitting through the conversation about Aurora’s visit might give her more information about these people she’s supposed to meet, but staying out here could mean her finding out a different kind of information, the kind they’re unwilling to speak of, like the unsaid history between Mary Margaret and David.

And -

It made her feel _alive_ , riding behind him. Possible escape method aside, this isn’t...bad.

“Or I could stay out here with David and Sunny?” Emma suggests.

Killian sounds likes he’s laughing when he says, “Sunny?”

“Sunshine’s a little too…”

“Quaint,” Killian says as Emma supplies, “Cheesy?”

Killian does laugh at that, and Emma smiles a little, too. After a beat, he starts the horse moving again, and says, “Back round to the stables, then?”

Emma just nods against him, drawing her arms tight around him again. She lets her mind go and just _feels_ so the first thing she notices as they speed into the stables is that she feels…

 _Confused_.

Because Regina’s standing where they left her and Killian has to draw to a hurried stop before he tramples her.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Regina shouts.

“I do apologize. I didn’t expect -”

“Never expect much, do you?” Regina snarls at him.

She calm a bit when she sees Emma and says, “Oh.”

“What are you doing here?” Emma asks.

Regina startles at that, like she didn’t expect Emma to speak. As Killian helps Emma down from the horse, she nods at David, who Emma just notices, is standing stiff and ramrod straight in front of the open stable doors.

“I came to welcome David back into our home,” Regina says.

Warm welcome that must’ve been.

She says ‘our’ like someone might say ‘sour’ like the look she gives David in between the look she throws Emma and Killian’s way, noting the way both are still breathing a bit heavy from their ride.

“I feel welcome,” David says.

Emma knows a lie when she hears it, when she sees it, and when David’s mouth sets in a line that could never be mistaken for a smile and it tugs in Emma’s gut, “Lie, lie, lie.”

“I do, too,” Emma says.

She turns to Killian and says, “Well, we were headed back to the manor, weren’t we?”

“Yes, Regina, you can join us, if you want,” Killian offers. “We’re just doing the last of the preparations for Aurora’s visit.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Regina says. “And I have other matters to attend to.”

Emma brushes down her jacket and rubs at her back, stretching out her muscles. Killian turns to her, something on his tongue, no doubt, but Regina speaks again.

“Thank you for the invitation,” she says, like it took her _this_ long to say it. And then, to Emma’s surprise, she says, “Perhaps, Emma, we can go riding together.”

“We can?”

“I know you haven’t had lessons, but, you seem a natural at this. The way you’ve handled everything else, a horse should be no trouble for you,” Regina says.

She smiles.

Emma smiles back.

Regina nods.

“We’ll see each other at another time. I’ll be away until the inauguration, but I’m sure you’ll be in good company. Aurora and Phillip are _wonderful_ people.”

With that, she turns and walks away. Emma follows her with her eyes for a moment, the straightness of her back, _poised_ like she’s on the stage. If everything with her is meant to be that way, Emma the unwilling participant in her play…

Emma bites back a groan, and instead turns to Killian and asks, “What was that about?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

Emma looks to David instead, seeking answers there, but he disappears into the stables before she can ask. Never mind about staying behind to ride Sunny. Never mind about a lot of things.

Her stomach is ready for food, anyway.

Emma starts her own walk to the manor. She can hear Killian’s footsteps retreating from her, no doubt to discuss with David whatever the hell he won’t discuss with her, but it’s fine. If he wants to tell her nothing, then she’s just going to have to find out on her own.

-

She finds Mary Margaret waiting for her by the kitchen exit and follows in her quickly moving footsteps to a room just a few doors down, a small office that can’t really be called that, even. It looks like it might’ve been a tiny storage room once that someone cleaned up a bit, pushed a desk in, and labelled an office because it makes for the sort of cubicle dungeons that CEOs and royalty, apparently, are so fond of.

Mary Margaret doesn’t say much as she leads Emma to the smallest of couches and they take the seat beside each other, knee to knee. Mary Margaret’s focus is entirely on the phone in her hand, but she takes a moment to utter out, “Sorry, I’m just replying to this email. I have to -”

Mary Margaret hisses, fingers flying across the screen. There’s an air of frustration around her that wasn’t there before she ran off, leaving Emma, Killian and David behind. It’s the latter that brought it on; it was obvious from the moment Mary Margaret set eyes on him, and that frustration is translating rather nicely into whatever (that Emma is guessing is a strongly worded) email leaving her fingertips.

She’d leave it be, but Emma’s a mirror of that frustration at the moment, too. She’s just as caught unawares by today as she was by yesterday and the day before and _this_ whole situation and left to find her own way out of the dark as Mary Margaret seems to be by David’s appearance.

So, given _that_ and the fact that if Mary Margaret stabs at the screen any harder, it’s going to shatter right under her fingertips, Emma deftly plucks it out of her hands.

At Mary Margaret's noise of protest, Emma lays it down on the couch between them, well within reaching distance, and says, “Your phone doesn't deserve the abuse.”

Mary Margaret starts, a word on her lips, and then, looking at Emma a bit longer, she sags in her seat.

“Is this about the new horse master?” Emma presses.

“Please don’t call him that,” Mary Margaret says with a groan. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

About him or the naming is the question that Mary Margaret’s search of the heavens with her eyes and mouthed “S&M thing,” answers.

Emma smiles and agrees, “Yeah, we’re renaming that, right.” Addressing the question Mary Margaret left unanswered, Emma starts, “Whatever history is there between you two…”

“Should stay in the past,” Mary Margaret fills in quickly.

Defensively.

Emma knows a thing or two about fighting to keep the past out of her present, knows that bite to Mary Margaret’s words.

Still she isn’t up for offering her sympathy at the moment, so, ignoring Mary Margaret’s words, she finishes, “...isn’t my business. Unless it needs to be.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen slightly and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Oh.”

Emma shrugs. “I just don’t want to be caught unaware. Regina came after you left. I think she said something to him.”

Shaking her head, Mary Margaret says, “She did. Of course she did.” Mary Margaret sighs. “David and I used to date.”

Emma nods. That much was obvious, which Mary Margaret notes, a sheepish shrug lifting her shoulders, “King Henry started to get sick around that time. I think...Regina resented me for being happy when she was so unhappy. She loved her father.”

It doesn’t strike her as a lie, but Mary Margaret's expression tells more than her words do, that there are things being left unsaid. She supposes that it could just be whatever was between her and David, but it feels like something more, and Emma allows herself a moment of frustration. All these half-truths are playing hell on her stomach.

“But things fell apart between us, and I think now she’s just gloating. Though I don’t know why - how he could just show up without me knowing - who would -”

Mary Margaret makes a noise of frustration.

“I think you do know the ‘who, how, and whys,’” Emma says. “It’s the ‘What now?’ that’s giving you trouble.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t so much as sag as she relaxes, giving Emma an understanding smile. “You know that feeling, right. I...didn’t forget.” Mary Margaret laughs. “Sorry. We were supposed to be talking about that, weren’t we? The ‘what now’? Well, _now_ we are going to go shopping.”

“You mean, you don’t have clothes already cherry picked out for me for me to choose from? What was that dress yesterday then?”

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “That was a miraculous fluke. The tailor that I use had a couple of dresses in your size already, I just chose one and had her take it in a little bit, didn’t take her long at all.”

Emma lifts a brow in surprise and Mary Margaret pulls a face, “I think Killian's been giving you the wrong impression. I don't micro manage the royal lifestyle as he would say” - She looks at Emma, instantly recognizing her impression - “As he’s said, even. You can pick out your own clothes. I just thought it might be nice for us to do it together.”

Mary Margaret offers her a smile.

“Together” doesn’t sound so bad. Sounds less like being in the dark, and more like a way into the light - even if that light is worse than being in the dark. As bright and harsh as the spotlight has been on her for the past few days, she knows it could be worse. Being in the light, knowing whatever the hell is truly going on between all of these people could be worse. Still, she’d rather not be blindsided.

Emma replies with a smile of her own, and says, “Why not?”


	7. Chapter 7

“You didn’t tell me she didn’t know.”

David’s accusation hits him square in the back as Killian swivels around to watch Emma disappear the way they both came. When he can no longer see her, he finally turns to David and replies, “I thought it would be best if she didn’t.”

“For who?”

“I’m not afraid of Mary Margaret’s wrath,” Killian says drily.

David’s moved close enough that Killian can see how very clearly his new _former_ hire wants to take a swing at him. It’s fortunate that Killian isn’t afraid of David’s wrath either, though being on the receiving end of it isn’t something he’s particularly keen on experiencing again.

“It would be better for her because then she wouldn’t spend the weeks leading up to it unfocused and off task.”

David stumbles at that, his expression going comically soft. “I make her unfocused?”

Killian laughs, but the humor of it quickly leaves him. David _does_ make Mary Margaret unfocused, which would be fine if Killian didn’t need her to keep things from falling apart, and with Emma now in his life he needs her more than ever.

He combs his fingers through his hair, holding back a sigh. Firing David on his first day would be poor form, but it could be better than pulling him into this.

“That’s not the point, mate. I need her and I need you, so if you could -” He scratches at his chin as he searches for the word less likely to end with David’s fist in his face “- resist the urge to seek her forgiveness by any means necessary, that’d be fantastic.”

“Fantastic,” David echoes, hands on his hips.

He slumps but not quite defeated, for as Killian turns to leave, David says, “This need for Mary Margaret...it isn’t putting her in any danger, right?”

Killian wishes he could reassure him, but he won’t lie about that, and trusting that things will go the best way will just leave them unprepared for the worst.

“I’ll make sure that the target remains on my back,” Killian says.

It isn’t reassuring at all, and when the question is posed, Killian isn’t sure who voiced it.

_Just how many are taking aim?_

-

Mary Margaret insists on driving them downtown, which is surprising in a way, a way consisting of three parts, that being:

1) Mary Margaret’s the Socaean _Royal_ Press Secretary (separate from their governmental Press Secretary,) which was news to Emma that she only picked up when Mary Margaret mentioned she’d have to hold a conference tomorrow, she’ll need to proofread the statement but it should be fine, and “Don’t worry, Emma, you won’t have to put in an appearance since you and Killian already spoke to the masses through Sidney’s show.” Although she’s seemed to like calling herself the Royal Bird Master up until their Horse Master kind of ruined that (not to be noted that Emma was the one who _really_ ruined it, but okay, to be noted, it’s Fifty Shades of Grey that really ruined it, so she’s completely innocent in this.)

2!

2) She’s the one who’s been insisting on Emma keeping her contact with others to a minimum to avoid any “potential conflicts.” Emma assured her that she wouldn’t punch anyone in the face, but it seemed to have the opposite effect in convincing Mary Margaret that she’d handle herself with poise and grace.

3) So, it would make more sense for Mary Margaret to surround them with people who could play a barrier between Emma and any person she’s liable to punch in the face.

Also, there’s the fact that she’s pretty sure Leroy was supposed to go with them. The rearview gave her a perfect shot of Leroy’s fuming expression as they drove out the gates.

Pretty sure becomes absolute certainty when Mary Margaret defends herself against the reprimand Emma apparently voiced with her mind. She only wishes this talent went two ways. Reading minds sure would come in handy for all these people with all these secrets giving her all these headaches. Well, it’s just the one, but as she’s had it since she woke up to Belle’s frantic texts, counting it in days is as good of a marker as any.

“He’ll forgive me. I’m only going to Jefferson’s.”

Emma nods and reaches over to pat Mary Margaret on the shoulder, “He will.” Pulling away, she prompts, “Jefferson is your stylist?”

“Yes, he is. He’s…” She pauses, thinking hard, thinking _very_ hard, wrinkle in her brow, and then exclaims, unexpectedly excited, “He’ll like you!”

Emma snorts. “That endorsement isn’t doing him any favors.”

She turns to look out the window, so many fields passing by, and she’s starting to play Spot the Cow, a game made unsurprisingly easy when they pass a cow pasture, when Mary Margaret says, “You really think that?”

Emma shifts back around, frowning in question.

“Think what?”

“That his liking you would be a bad thing?”

Emma shrugs. Deciding to skim over whatever Mary Margaret’s implying because whoa, she is not going there, as road trip-like as this scenery is, it’s not some cross-country journey where they bare their hearts, hopes, dreams, all those future plans that they’re going to make happen! They are!

“Killian liked me.”

Mary Margaret nods.

“You know, Emma, he still does.”

Emma starts to question, but quickly realizes that she doesn’t actually have a question to that. Bewildered. Confused? No, bewildered is the word, because it’s kind of wild that Mary Margaret thinks that answers anything at all.

Besides, she figured that one on her own, and now that they’re making this connection, that liking Emma can only lead to ruin, it’s a little worrying. Can this get worse? Like, of course it can. She doesn’t think telling Killian to stop liking her will really go over well, though.

He’ll probably be bewildered too.

Or worse, he’ll be sincere and tell her something she really doesn’t want to hear.

This would be headache inducing if she didn’t already have the aforementioned headache. Or, it’s like a headache tower, building one floor over the next, the foundation shaky enough that when it goes toppling down...Emma will go with it, head in her hands, wishing that she could lay down and just never wake up.

After long moments of Emma visualizing her breakdown -  in the apple orchard, Sunny neighing at her before abandoning her to her fate where Regina stalks over in all her royal finery to gloat, and the imagined scene is probably too clear of a testament to her psychological state - the drive seems to smooth out, like they’re gliding over the road. That helps a little, the bumps not adding soreness to her list of afflictions. It was kind of redundant anyway, pain in the ass already top of the list in the form of one dumb, secretive prince.

Emma glances out the window again to realize that they’re actually in a town. She reads as many of the signs on the shops as she can, cataloguing the general options for spots closer to the manor than downtown.

It soon becomes easier to read the signs. Mary Margaret slows down to the local speed. They linger a little longer, coming up to a stoplight.

No. Wrong. It’s a complete stop. It’s the middle of the road and there’s no stoplights on these streets anyway. Truly local.

Mary Margaret starts reversing, driving forward, reversing, driving forward, turning away from the curb entirely, and reversing.

It feels surreal, like Emma’s in a comedy exaggerating just how difficult parallel parking can be. It’s too real, she’s in a dramedy, where on the one hand Mary Margaret’s struggle is hilarious from an outsider’s standpoint, and on the other -

“This is downtown.”

Mary Margaret lets her frustration finally guide her into a good enough park that she can turn to Emma fully when she says, “It is. Close right?”

Pathetic right.

All offense to Socaea, but this is an insult to downtowns everywhere.

Mary Margaret looks out the window towards the center of town, which is in easy view since the town’s small enough that anywhere you walk, you’d definitely see it.

She turns to Emma and smiles, “Quaint is what you would say, right?”

“That’s what you would say.” She whines, groans, if it sounds like she’s dying, she really well and truly is. “We’re parked on the ass-end of nowhere’s Main Street.”

Mary Margaret frowns, but Emma’s not really feeling kind.

Well, “Okay, it’s the ass-end of… ‘What is this place called?’” Mary Margaret sighs and supplies, “Storybrooke.” Emma’s too... _too_ to comment on that, simply finishes her correction, “Ass-end of a country’s countryside.” She groans. “Welcome to Storybrooke, I guess.”

Mary Margaret expression drops further, and Emma slackens. This isn’t helping, this isn’t helping, this isn’t helping -

It’s a helpful mantra, though.

She breathes out and announces, “Okay, I’m done.”

Emma doesn’t add a promise to that because that’s not one she’d be able to keep, but she does tuck away her disgruntlement as best she can. It isn’t helping, it isn’t helping, it isn’t -

Oh hell, is she really going to keep giving her that look, like Emma’s the one who shot Bambi’s mom?

“To Jefferson?” Emma suggests when Mary Margaret continues to make _that_ face at her, and she’s about ready to announce that she’s never gone hunting and she’s never had any desire to, and Storybrooke is so quaint, never seen a better downtown in her entire life!

Luckily, her suggestion works, encouraging probably in its intensity, so Mary Margaret opens her door. Emma follows suit, stepping out on the sidewalk. Mary Margaret starts ahead of her and half a block of walking leads them to a shop.

There are two outfits in the window display, mannequins in coordinating outfits for a man and a little girl. Without the female mannequin of the usual three mannequin window display, Emma’s only too hesitant about stepping within. She’s seen this bad horror movie before. Was it Netflix? Syfy? Was the female mannequin the murdered mom or the murderous one?

Mary Margaret pulls open the door with a smile, and Emma’s eased, mostly. She grabs the door from Mary Margaret, and lets her enter first. A wise move, and _not_ a cowardly one. If she really thought this shop was a front for a portal to Hell, she’d have to consider whether it wasn’t just buildup to the twist ending where the world she left was the true hell all along.

A blur of movement can’t even be counted as a warning when Mary Margaret’s hit full-force with the weight of an excited child.

“Snow!” Emma hears as she reaches out to steady Mary Margaret.

“Gracie, don’t tackle her,” a male voice calls out. Emma looks up, quick assessment of the filled racks of clothes, too many styles to categorize in a cursory look, designs hanging on the walls in frames with no clear symmetry, and behind the counter a spiral staircase that looks straight out of Lord of the Rings.

So she got her genres wrong, everyone makes mistakes.

The owner of the voice descends into view. She sees his smile before she sees anything else. Wrong genre again. Sort of. Still a fantasy, but it is less “epic adventure to save the world” and more “girl opens the door into a world of strange magic, led along by a mysterious and magical guide.”

The guide being - “Jefferson?” Emma asks.

“The one and only.” As a thoughtful aside he adds, “Although I could be wrong.”

He chuckles at that, so yeah, he’s the weirdo guide.

Which would make the girl, Grace, currently hugging Mary Margaret, the one who opened the door.

Strange, but at least the mannequins make sense now. Grace’s hair bow is the same color as Jefferson’s bowtie and the outlined pattern on his shirt, and the gold hem of her dress is the same color as his socks, in easy view because he’s opted to watch them from his seat on the steps, his feet propped up on the counter.

“I’m Grace,” his daughter announces, relinquishing Mary Margaret. With a smile and the bluntness of a child, she says, “You’re Killian’s kidnapper.” Grace frowns, and shakes her head. Clearly anxious to correct herself, she quickly says, “Kidnapper _girlfriend_.”

“Yeah,” Emma says.

Like what else is she going to say? She isn’t going to argue with a child over something she heard on TV or read online. Even though she isn’t a kidnapper. Or his girlfriend. Except she is, even though she’s not. Girlfriend can be argued, sure but she isn’t a kidnapper.

“I’m not a kidnapper.”

Okay, so Emma _is_ arguing with a child.

“Okay,” Grace says.

_Okay_ , well she really isn’t.

If only everyone could be convinced as easily as Grace. Maybe Emma would still be in New York, in that cheap coffee shop _downtown_ enjoying normal priced coffee in a normal life.

“Well, that settles it,” Jefferson says, and stands from his makeshift seat, skipping the last few steps to hop to the floor. “I couldn’t dress a kidnapper, but a girlfriend is fine.” He nods towards the racks. “Find a look you like and we can make it your own.”

“We?” Emma asks. From the mannequins in the window and the lack of appearance from any other strange characters playing at normal humans, she kind of figured that it’s just him and his daughter.

Another shop clerk, then?

“You and I. We.”

Emma stares blankly.

Reading her look, Jefferson explains, “This isn’t a one person process. You have better insight into yourself than I do. Clothes are more than clothes. They’re a reflection of a person. A window into their world.”

He looks her up and down, and Emma becomes aware of her outfit. She takes off the beanie she’d been wearing because of the cold, shaking out her hair. Leather jacket over a sweater. Jeans. Boots. He can’t see her fuzzy socks because they’re only mid-calf and her boots rise almost to her knees.

It’s a normal outfit. Window into what?

She’s two for two in this whole newfound ability to speak into other’s minds because Jefferson’s more than happy to offer his unwanted analysis.

“It’s cold but you’re wearing a leather jacket over a sweater instead of a winter coat. It’s the smarter option, but the leather offers more protection than a coat. It offers the protection you really need. The sweater? Plain. A little too big. Kind of frumpy.”

“Hey!”

Grace laughs, and Emma narrows her eyes at her father. She likes this sweater. It’s her best one.

“You have others but this one is probably the best for public viewing. You need a certain image, but it isn’t one you’ve ever needed to fit into.”

Okay. Well.

Okay.

She can grudgingly acknowledge the too much on the nose truth of that one. It’s her best one when you’re going by the “What is less likely to cause public ridicule for a Prince’s girlfriend?” standard, but she likes her other sweaters a lot better. Loves the ones with the holes from getting caught on things and faded colours from the wash. They’re well-worn clothes she’s had for a while. It’s nice to have clothes that aren’t borrowed and she has to return when she’s sent off somewhere else. Clothes that she can choose to take wherever she goes. A new town.  A new city.

A new country.

“Jeans and boots because they’re easy, normal, and you can get away with that at least. Who’s judging a pair of jeans when you’re just going shopping? Not like you’re meeting the president in a little clothing shop.”

He nods at her hands, at the beanie crushed between her fingers, and says, “And your hat?”

Okay this is enough. It’s just a hat.

“What the hell does my hat say about me? Is it a reminder of the time I learned to knit, a show of one of my lesser known skills? Does it tell you I prefer night over day? That I secretly really enjoyed Twilight? _What_?”

He shakes his head, laughing around his reply, “No, all it says is that you like hats.”

Emma gapes for half a beat, stops that but the embarrassed blush creeps along in spite of her desire for it to not do that at all.

“I like hats,” Emma confirms.

Yeah, good comeback. Nice one, Emma, couldn’t have said it better. That’ll definitely shut him up.

She stuffs her hat into her back pocket, and places her hands on her hips impatient and eager to move on from this ‘Exclusive Tell All: Emma’s clothing reveals the truth about her! She likes Twilight! And hats!’

“So I just need to find some looks I like and _you_ can do this?” she asks, emphasis on the Jefferson handling it because she’d rather have her clothing speak in tongues than put herself on display for anymore clothes-readers. Her measurements are all he’s getting out of her, and since he already has those, all she has to do is throw some clothes his way.

Which is easier said than done when he disappears back up the stairs and Grace’s attentions turn to Emma. It isn’t that she bothers Emma or anything; Emma doesn’t have much experience with kids beyond seeing her former neighbor’s kids as they pass each other in the hall, but Grace is easy on a beginner, moving away from Emma’s current situation quickly.

Still the combination of questions and Mary Margaret’s offered remarks punctuated by some very heavy sighing makes it a little difficult to stay on task.

“What’s New York like?” becomes “The subway is really that gross?” leading to “I read about giant rats in one of the animal encyclopedias at the library” which segues into “I liked that book too!” and soon Emma’s sitting on the floor having an intense discussion about Redwall while Mary Margaret paces behind her.

The pacing she only notices when Jefferson calls Grace and she runs off up the stairs, leaving Emma to looking through the racks and hear with perfect clarity yet another sigh and Mary Margaret’s shoes treading the floor.

Emma doesn’t really know how to go about this whole offering comfort thing, sharing in woes, commiseration over painful romances.

Still, she just can’t take another sigh.

“Are you here or at the stables right now?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret near chokes on her next sigh, Emma’s disruption too unexpected. She wheezes once, and then looks at Emma with doe-eyed surprise, pink beginning to rise in her cheeks.

“Of course I’m here! I don’t know what…” Emma looks at her pointedly, has been since she asked Mary Margaret the question, and finally she caves and says, “I’m still just a bit overwhelmed by his appearance. I haven’t thought about him in so long and then he’s just - he’s here!”

Emma doesn’t remark on the obvious lie - Mary Margaret’s definitely thought of him recently. It wouldn’t be such an upheaval if he wasn’t on her mind. Maybe not completely, maybe not consciously, but he’s been there. Just waiting to materialize.

Which he’s done, in the flesh.

“Well, it looks like he’s staying, so what do you plan to do about it?”

“Short of sending him back wherever he came from?”

Emma’s unconvinced by that even being a possible suggestion.

Mary Margaret agrees.

“I just need to throw myself into other things.”

With a decisive nod of her head, she does so, taking Emma along with her as that nod unfortunately is in the direction of the racks that Emma has only really glanced at.

Mary Margaret starts to pick tops, dresses, a few pants and too many skirts in a frenzy- all of them set on the counter one by one, waiting for Emma’s approval.

When Emma doesn’t immediately decide, Mary Margaret thrusts the top forward and prompts, “Would you wear something like this?”

She feels a little attacked by Mary Margaret’s intensity, barely half a thought in her reply, “I thought you didn’t micromanage?”

“This is macro-managing,” Mary Margaret says with the swiftness of a practiced answer used many times before.

As Emma’s not had the same practice, she doesn’t have a smart reply at the ready, and Mary Margaret’s far too forceful for Emma to do anything but obey when she looks Emma dead in the eyes, and says, “Now. Choose.”

It’s only after Emma’s yay’ed and nay’ed more clothes than she’s sure she needs, hopefully, that Emma questions when Mary Margaret’s practiced that reply. Maybe she didn’t mean to be that forceful, but Emma can’t believe that when she’s worked with Killian. As much as Emma wanted to throw him against something (and still does, yeah, definitely, but she’s not looking for that headline: Prince Abused! The Black Swan Strikes Again!) there’s no way Mary Margaret hasn’t exacted that once or twice.

Or thrice or...how would a fourth or fifth time be phrased? Whatever, it’s probably too many times to keep track of anyway.

Emma can only be relieved that she’s been saved the bodily harm, although probably only by the skin of her teeth. Some of the things Emma vetoed had made Mary Margaret look at her less wounded and more wounding.

But in the end, Emma vetoing the last of the infinite pile that Mary Margaret sighs and says, “Your clothes need to speak for you. Not me.”

Jefferson descends the stairs with a cat burglar’s quiet, somehow behind the counter before she realizes. It figures he’d come when Mary Margaret’s finished driving Emma mad.

“That’s the understanding Snow I know,” Jefferson remarks.

When Grace called her that, Mary Margaret had smiled, but now, she frowns, so in curiosity, Emma ventures, “Snow? As in Snow White?”

Mary Margaret sighs, this time at a note of bitterness that her David sighing lacked.

“As in Snow White. Bet you can’t guess the Evil Queen in this tale,” Jefferson says.

He grins expectantly, and it isn’t the slyness of his response that irritates Emma, but the all-knowing smile of this situation, up to and including the return of Prince Charming. The irritation isn’t for her own sake, but unpleasant surprises are only made worse when everyone is in on it but you, so she can understand the slight hurt in Mary Margaret’s expression.

“Let’s not have a retelling,” Emma says.

Her stomach rumbles in agreement, ready to nip this shopping venture in the bud entirely. Prompted by the vocal arrangement of Emma’s hunger, Mary Margaret looks at her watch, and eyes widening, she glances to the window. Emma follows the look.

It’s dark outside. She didn’t even notice.

“Oh it’s late! We should go get dinner - why didn’t anyone call me?” Pulling her phone out her pocket, she says to Jefferson, “We need to return. Tell Grace I’ll come back soon,” and to Emma she says, “I’m going to pull the car up to the front. Get your jacket, confirm your measurements. We’ll have to come back for the necessary tweaking once Jefferson has collected samples for you to choose from.”

Emma starts to question what they’ve been doing all afternoon if it wasn’t choosing from samples already, but Mary Margaret near flees the shop, so she just sighs instead. She doesn’t mind the abrupt exit, but Mary Margaret’s frenzied run doesn’t really put her at ease.

“I need your phone number as well,” Jefferson says.

Emma shrugs to attention. Shrugs again in response. “Don’t know what’s going on with that one at the moment. I need to figure out carriers out here, whether my number will even still be my number.”

Which is now number one on her list of priorities. Being able to google this place would’ve made Storybrooke less of a crushing disappointment.

“So, I’ll contact you through Mary Margaret. Or Killian, even. You’re closer to him after all.”

Yeah, physically.

She hasn’t really thought about him since her whole ‘not his kidnapper’ assertion. But actually, she isn’t certain whether she even is closer to him. Like there are major things she’s not privy to. Google isn’t the fount of information it seems, and she feels like she can read Mary Margaret better than him. Mary Margaret’s so open and he’s shadowed. In the shadows. Sneaking like a sneaky asshole who can’t trust her.

Doesn’t inspire much confidence in her whole being able to trust him with this whole brand-spanking new life, but that’s really all she can do.

“Once upon a time,” Jefferson enunciates this oh so clearly and intentionally, but still softly like this is just an uncalculated thought, “I could’ve contacted you through Regina as well. But there’s no story if Snow White and the Evil Queen aren’t at odds.”

Frustrated, Emma snaps, “Can you stop treating them as characters and act like they’re real people?”

Jefferson huffs in offense, humor lacking when he says, “But I am. All stories are real, you know.”

To that, and to save herself an argument she doesn’t have the time or energy for, she can only say, “You’re a headache.”

A car horn cuts off any other response as Mary Margaret calls Emma away. Which she does. Go away, walking away from the counter

“See you later, Swan!”

Emma waves over her shoulder, and the last thing she hears as she steps out the door is him calling out, “The Swan Princess is a classic!”

“Ha-ha,” Emma says to no one in particular, since she’s the only one around to hear the joyless laugh anyway.

She gets into the car before Mary Margaret can yell at her, which is great because Mary Margaret only really says, “We should’ve left earlier. It’s actually unusual that Leroy didn’t come after us, but then it’s probably because you’re with me and not Killian.”

“He’s the one to worry about alright,” Emma agrees.

Mary Margaret makes some calls on her Bluetooth, cutting out any other conversation between them, so Emma’s left alone with her thoughts.

Swan Princess. It’s such an easy one, it makes Emma groan inwardly. Maybe she should’ve enjoyed Black Swan while it lasted.

She enjoys neither, actually, but that thought leads her to another. The Black Swan to the Swan Princess, and “There’s no story if Snow White and the Evil Queen aren’t at odds.” She’s not giving Jefferson’s little fairytale delusion any weight, but it’s clear now that she was right. Regina and Mary Margaret’s issue definitely goes deeper than the story Mary Margaret told her.

Once upon a time, they were friends.

That her mind phrases the thought that way is another headache in her headache tower. She glowers, determined not to compare anything to the Swan Princess, and never watch that movie ever again.

-

His call to Mary Margaret goes directly to voicemail this time. His fingers stop their listless running over the pages of revisions, and he slips his phone back into his pocket. Sagging back into his chair, he closes his eyes, allowing himself the slight smile.

He might get a call back, he might not. As she’s on call with someone else, there’s no knowing when she’ll get the break. He’ll probably see her and Emma in person long before that. And they’ll be fine - _are_ fine. Which he wasn’t truly, desperately worried over, but it would be irrational not to think of all the things that could’ve happened to them given the circumstances.

The door thumps loudly several times, in only a warning and not a request, because Killian hasn’t voiced a welcome before Leroy enters. As gruff as usual - and tactless, he says, “They’re not dead. Or kidnapped.” His guard’s face screws up like he’s about to announce the worst thing imaginable: the local tavern filled to maximum with happily drunk tourists. Through the gritted teeth of an ale-lover’s vindictive memory, he says, “They just lost track of time while shopping.”

Killian nods solemnly. 

“It happens to us all.”

Leroy growls in disgust, the implication that it’d happen to him so impossible that it isn’t worth replying to, and thusly, Killian doesn’t need to bite back his laughter as Leroy’s already left the room.

Leroy hasn’t gained enough distance not to hear his laughter, but enough that he won’t return to threaten Killian’s life. It’s a distance Killian’s carefully measured, for times when he really wants to tease his guard, and other times, where the small humor that can be found in Leroy’s amplified stomps is the only real smile he’ll manage that day.

And he’s definitely looking forward to the end of this one.

Going over some final preparations has drained him and then some, and no doubt they will have to be finalized repeatedly up and until they meet Aurora at the airport. He’s twice now revised Mary Margaret’s speech - noting anything that might draw questions, and offering a response.

It isn’t a necessity as Mary Margaret’s voice tends to align with his own, publically, but is what he does nonetheless. He would never send her out unprepared, and have her speak with confidence on a statement that he isn’t confident of himself.

She’s forced to do that every time Regina or Cora decide something is press conference worthy, and it’s never pleasant and always borderline cruel, which is all that they can get away with - publically.

He’s exhausted himself waiting for this day to end - and it started so well, Emma’s eyes soft and peering into his own, waiting for him to see her, too.

Killian sits up in his chair, glancing over the papers carefully strewn about him. He likes to edit by hand; before, the pain of cramping fingers making certain that every word was carefully chosen, and now, habit and practice. Every word tests the limits of his ambidexterity and those of the latest prosthetic technology - both of which he’s been steadily stretching for some time now.

Still, hand edits are all well and good, but if they’re to matter at all, he’ll have to join the modern world and type them up. Especially now, when he has something to look forward to after he’s finished - _someone_.

He’s quickly coming to rely on Emma’s company, especially the easy banter they’ve had from Evening-Turned-Day 1.

He shouldn’t settle into it because, behind her sarcasm and wit and her references to things he has no clue about and even her insults, there is the undercurrent of discomfort, anger at their situation, and fear. It would be wrong to say she puts on a brave front. Her bravery is sincere, but there’s the strength to fight her circumstances and then there’s a fear he still can’t identify. Killian sees it in her ability to shrug off her past like the information gathered in a file with her name on it says everything that needs to be said about it, as if even she can’t say anything more if she wanted to - and maybe she’d wanted to, but that was before - _before_. There’s more to it than a past of pain and disappointment, but he doesn’t know -

There’s also the other things he doesn’t know.

He mastered typing what’s before him without conscious thought long ago, so he feels his fingers drift across the keyboard, but he also feels his whole insides slumping away from the thoughts pressing and pressing.

There’s downsides to this single-minded focus of his, but he can’t just _not_ know. It’s haunting - in the worst way, where he tries not to think of _her_ face and _his_ in the same frame, but forever, irrevocably intertwined. Timing is never right, but that was a particular kind of wrong, inner sanctum of hell worthy.

Lose his love, his hand, and a reality to even ground him. He survived with this single-minded focus, so downsides aside he _needs_ to know, if only to put it to rest. With Cora’s dismissal, his path has diverted but still with the same end: his father’s reasoning. He went from one father to another, the question still the same.

_Why_?

He wishes he didn’t care so much about the answer.

But he does, and so, he’s left trying to figure out how best to steal away during Aurora’s visit. It was so much simpler before, but now he has Emma, so the trouble is compounded because he’s keeping this secret from her, but also they’re _together._ Partners. Lovers as the word can be applied to their relationship, but he can’t very well abscond with her to the ruins of one of Gold’s former offices that’s been gutted of all personnel and materials related to Gold in anyway in only the off-chance that a former freelance “artist” actually has information Killian needs.

As much as partners should mean confiding in her, this is what she agreed to. Emma said so herself, she can be on her own and _should_ be on her own for both of their sakes. Still, she probably didn’t mean him leaving her with a princess less than a week after she learned that said princess even existed.

But if the man knows, how long will he sit on it? Or be allowed to? Even waiting these next days is a risk. So, it’s the risks that he has to weigh against each other: drawing a further rift between him and Emma than the one they’ve started with, or losing out on a chance to answer that “Why?”

It’s haunting him, but he gets the feeling either choice will as well.

He drifts in his thoughts longer than he realizes because the revisions and finalizations are typed fully when he finally draws back to the material world. It’s only a matter of sending them off to Mary Margaret, Kathryn, and Frederick before he can stand and stretch out the stiffness in his muscles into something approaching less painful. He packs all the sensitive material away, leaves as the centerpiece on his desk his copy of Will’s favourite comic. Killian still doesn’t understand it, and enjoys because of that. Understanding would surely sour it entirely.

The halls are fairly empty as he walks to his rooms. He sees Ruby perched on top of one of the window seats, her pen between her teeth as she diligently searches for the hidden objects on her tablet screen, and Billy and Mulan in deep conversation at the dead-end of a hall. He hears footsteps further off but doesn’t see their owners.

At his destination, he pauses at his door, knocking to no answer. He unlocks it, calling into the room, “Emma?”

Frowning at the lack of response, he steps within. He was correct in assuming she couldn’t possibly be asleep, but she should’ve been back now and, as evidenced by the bag carelessly dropped on the floor, some pens and a half-eaten oatmeal bar spilling out of it, she is.

The bathroom door is open and empty, so he turns heel and heads back down towards Mary Margaret’s kitchen office. It’s darkened down there, so much so that the only real lights on his walk are the flameless candles on the end tables and the central light that hangs over the food serving table, lit at its lowest setting.

There’s light underneath Mary Margaret’s door as well. It isn’t bright, so she’s using the lamplight, then. She must be ready to turn in.

He knocks on the door, trying for soft but it starts to swing open despite his light touch. Through the crack, Killian sees Mary Margaret’s head bowed over her tablet. Her legs are folded beneath her and she’s one shirt change away from falling into bed, already in her pants and slippers at her feet.

Killian knocks again, a bit louder. With a tired huff, Mary Margaret turns to look at him. Her expression brightens, aggravation easing from the creases in her forehead. She looks tired, but these creases aren’t warning bells, at least.

“Oh, Killian, it’s you. Good.”

She nods that last part emphatically. She’s trying to convince herself of the truth of that, but Killian’s not offended. His appearance has caused her nothing but grief lately - and foremost, he knows exactly who Mary Margaret expected to knock on her door.

His lips quirk in a half-smile. Mary Margaret is nothing but predictable when it comes to David, and David is the same. This distance between them isn’t going to last despite Killian impressing on David the necessity of not letting his and Mary Margaret’s personal history come between Mary Margaret and her job - Killian’s a bit of a fool to imagine that it already hasn’t.

Footsteps come up behind him and Mary Margaret lifts in her seat to look despite herself - she squints in disgust.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Ashley says as she bumps his shoulder and Killian grabs her to stop her having a late night conference with the floor.

“No bother,” Killian says with a smile.

Her eyes widen and she bites her lip - words deliberately cut off, before she nods and runs off down the hall. When Killian looks to Mary Margaret again, he sighs and mentally dons his dunce cap. Her lips are downturned, the briefest glimpse of the disappointment she’s carried for years.

He’s a fool. He’s an utter idiot.

She squints her eyes shut in thought.

“I’ve read over everything already, so the last preparations to be done are a good night’s sleep. Which I’m going to get tonight.” She says the last with a steadfast determination. Killian’s smile is true at that. A determined Mary Margaret is a fearsome one. Her pillow is in for a fight if it in any way tries to impede her rest. With a quirk to her brow, she asks, “Why aren’t you doing the same? Is there something up with Emma?”

“Should there be?” wars with “Where is she?” on her tongue so he settles on a concerned medium.

“I wouldn’t know as she hasn’t returned to her rooms. I thought she might still be with you.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head, brow wrinkling again. “But I thought she went up to your rooms when we arrived. I asked her whether she wanted me to walk her there, but she said ‘I’ve driven cross-country in a car without GPS, I’m sure I can make it to bed without the kindergarten chaperone.’” Mary Margaret smiles. “She said I’d make a good elementary school teacher. I think it was a compliment.”

Mary Margaret adds, completely offhand, “Grace likes her.”

“Jefferson, too, I gather,” Killian says, not pointed in the slightest.

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Killian agrees, but that draws him back to the current situation. With certainty, he says, “She didn’t get lost.”

His heartbeat switches to a faster tempo in concern for a brief moment, imagining that she’s been held up - but it’s Emma so the only person in this home likely to have held her up is herself. Where would she have gone, then?

He’s truly concerned, then. Turning to Mary Margaret, he says, “I’ll find her,” and tries for calm and not racing his way out the doors into the gardens. Outside, he looks right and left, but his feet have already chosen their path, leading him all the way to the stables. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her midway down the trail they tread this morning.

“Emma,” he calls out, not wanting to sneak up on her and cause himself an injury that’ll have them truly fending off reports that Emma is definitely the Black Swan and Killian really is her next victim.

She glances over her shoulder, and says, “Oh,” with the kind of soft surprise that’s like a slightly open gate in her walls, a glimpse at a woman not expecting anyone to come looking for her.

“Sorry. I really was going upstairs but then I just -”

She shrugs the rest of the apology, so Killian supplies, grinning, “Decided on a late night stroll? Or perhaps, a late night escape?”

“What?” He nods towards the stables and she catches on, shaking her head. “No. After seeing your downtown, though, I think you’re right. It is a pretty reasonable mode of escape. I wouldn’t look out of place running a horse through your miles of cow, corn, potato and flower fields.”

He chuckles at that. She steps to the side and uncrosses her arms. Her bare fingers look cold. He doesn’t take one, leery of upsetting her, but he recognizes an invitation. He happily accepts, and walks up to stand beside her, almost shoulder to shoulder. She keeps her eyes on the miles of fields, those of the manor and the one’s stretching beyond it. The grass crunches underneath her feet as she shifts, the sound sharp in the silence. Her soft sigh is audible - as is his, and that she turns into him, peering up at him beneath her lashes and the hat pulled down nearly to her eyebrows. Any closer and the woolen ball at the top would tickle his nose.

She rocks back on her heels, head slightly tilted in expectation.

“So what did bring you out here?” he asks.

“I just _love_ trees!”

She draws out her ‘love’ but he holds her gaze just as long, and she sinks down in defeat. He’s most certainly imagining it, but the length of time between her holding out on her inner thoughts and confessing them to him seems to be decreasing. This could just be an outlier though, or rather, a confession on such a small scale that it doesn’t really matter if she says it or not.

“This place is pretty and all, but I feel a little cloistered in there. I just - I started walking up the stairs and was kind of dreading locking myself in the room. Sorry.”

She shrugs like she’s partially apologetic, but only for being forced to admit it.

“I understand.”

“You do?”

Her surprise is too genuine, and she must read his answering surprise because she turns away slightly, looking just south of his eyes. “Stupid question to ask Mr. World Traveler.”

“Oh, you’ve been looking up my habits, have you?”

A wide smile takes over his face, a tease at the tip of his tongue and the brush of his fingers against hers, lifting his hand to repeat the motion against the bare skin of her neck, where the collar of her jacket has wrinkled down.

Emma looks at him, clearly to make sure her eye-roll is seen. His smile widens at that, and then freezes at the whiplash narrowing of her eyes, just as his hand does midway to his intended destination, drops with the aggravation twisting her features, just as his hand does, falls back down to his side and away from her.

“Well, it’s better than waiting for you to tell me, right?” she snaps.

Her words ring, as if they’ve spent forever bouncing around in the echo chamber of her head.

Killian looks away this time, desperately grasping at a response that’ll taste less like acid on his tongue. She draws back before he can - and then he’s desperately grasping at an apology that doesn’t spill all his thoughts and secrets before her.

She makes it easy on him, scoffing, “Whatever.”

The one word dismissal leaves Killian with an opening to suggest, “How about we sit down and I tell you all about my daily habits. My skin routine, how I choose what to wear -”

Emma looks at him in disgust, at the ground in the same except the disgust is much deeper when directed at him.

“Hard pass,” she says.

She turns away and looks out towards the fields again, a soft sigh escaping her. Closing her eyes, she opens them only when she’s turned completely towards the manor.

“We can go back now.”

“I don’t mind staying.”

She considers his quick reply - and she knows that he recognizes it because she increases the distance between them, giving herself more than enough space to walk away, but perhaps not enough to separate her from his knowing.

“It’s cold.”

She shudders - manufactured, maybe, but it’s true that it’s cold. He runs hot, but even he feels slightly chilled, so exposed.

“Alright, love, let’s go back then.”

He pauses, uncertain. He stretches his hand out before him, closing it around the bitter air. He can’t hear the sound of crushed grass - Emma’s walking almost out of reach. Still, fortune favors the brave, so he says, “Another night, we’ll stay and watch the stars.”

She hasn’t gone that far. At his words, she stops and flips around to look at him, and it’s endearing, the soft smile she awards him just beyond the sarcasm at her tongue.

“Sounds good.”

The pause ends and she quickens her steps, wrapping her arms around her when the wind picks up. Left behind, he can only see the miles still stretched out between them.

Had the rest of her day exhausted her as much as it has him? Has this worn on her so quickly, that the most she can relax is behind the closed doors of their room? And was it that - the thought of Killian himself that made her want to run?

Does she like to stargaze?

It’s the last that settles the most uncomfortably in his gut, and he hasn’t been torn on this before, on what is a truth worth pursuing. He looks up at the stars - as clear as the sky is, there’s not many to be found - and can’t help but question whether he should’ve just told her.

“Hurry up!” Emma calls out.

He draws in a sharp breath, surprised, so far ahead of him and she could’ve left him behind but she’s standing just at the doors. Her arms are wrapped around her. She’s too cold to be waiting for him.

But she is.

Killian nods, decided, and starts to jog towards her. It may not be kind to have her surprised, but the faster he gets through this, the quicker she can be rid of this situation. Besides, time is something neither of them really have to waste.

His sister is trying to kill him, after all.

 


End file.
